What is the concept of mortality?
To be loved? To be feared? To feel so passionately, when we know we are only to meet inevitable tragedy?

In the arms of a lover, we must ask ourselves these things.
What is the weight of mortality?
How much value is emotion to such fragile, time-sensitive creatures?
What is to be gained, or conversely lost in the game of life?

The terms of business are simple.
The rules of emotion are not.

The price tags on emotional attachment must be calculated.
What is the return policy on a kiss?
What is the punishment if it's stolen?

And how can he come to my doorstep
Seeking a refund of my battered, beaten heart,
Leaving it to rot in a plastic bag that tells me to "Have a Nice Day!"
That cheeky, yellow smile holds nothing for me now.

A defective product, is what he told me.
Take it back
I don't want it anymore.

Insecticide.
Does anyone know where I can get some insecticide?
I need it, the sensation of that cold, sleek nozzle pushing inside me
My belly button will be heavens gate- inside are those **** butterflies...
Butterflies that tremble and quiver whenever you walk by.
That fragility is my enemy.
The only solace I can ever hope for, is in the desolation of such weakness.
My heart, it would often seem, is on a suicide mission.
So eager to climb up my throat and plunge into your twin pools of blue.
Those dastardly insects are fighting like hell,
Their wings the color of your lips-
The beat of their wings, a mockery of my own heartbeat.
I guess no one told them, their wings flutter for no one but me now
And I have had far enough of their nonsense.
Desires of a lonely heart are fantastical at best.
But nothing can argue with the cold steel of that nozzle
Wedged firmly inside, its mission realized.
And finally it's a feeling that I want to feel, not any of this involuntary *******, "falling in love".
Because I really can't help falling in love with you.
I'd stop it if I could. I'd throw the train from its rails, toss the plane from the sky, sink the ship out at sea.
To forget I ever loved you.

The flowers of June no longer hold that same color.

The bitter taste of the pest control will be the only taste on my tongue.

Not yours any longer, my dear.