his fingernails are bitten to bone in an anxiety-ridden existence that seemingly only became once she stopped pulling his hands out of his mouth.
tar lingers on his tongue - refusing to be removed - makes his throat disgustingly thick with the kind of filth that's vomited from a broken heart.
he remembers the feeling of her chest on his and his heart stutters is both pain and longing, he wishes for her back - he hates her callous persona. does he want her back? no- yes?
he can't make up his mind and likes to revisit memories of her that cause him pain (masochistic son of a bitch he'd say), like the screenshots of her perfect tits and perfect booty moulded by the likes of Donatello. she's so goddamn pretty and glowing like an angel, he sees beauty personified when he thinks of her. but in reality she's merely a fallen angel casted outta heaven coz she fell for her bro Lucifers desirable charm and now sins like a criminal on death row.
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everything I write is shit goodbye world of poetry fuk u inspiration ur dead to me now
