American nightmare.
Put back together his way. His tears, his shame.
Passion where her mouth used to be.
Defective.
How does it feel watching me rot?
Pick apart all of the pieces you like and convince yourself you love me.
She ran.
I never recovered.
Memory
How I'd kill to hate you.
posted by darl @ 6:35 PM
1 Comments:
"Passion where her mouth used to be..."
Also where it should be, upon the lips of the one you love and who loves you in return.
Some memories should be killed. Alas, such is life.
Hello Darl-ing!
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