this is for all the lovers. . . .
Love is like a bird.
When you least expect it. . . it shits in your face.
Swears it loves you.
Tells you you're safe.
Tells you to trust it. . . just trust it, it says.
Gets bored with you.
Invents five different stories as to why it needs to leave you.
Swears it feels horrible about it.
Really. . . awful.
Aww.


Shoot yourselves in the spleens, kneecaps and guts, you sons of bitches and tell me THEN that you know how we feel. Tell me THEN that you're in as much pain as we are. Tell me THEN that you understand. I'll wait a few minutes until you've choked on your innards, vomited up blood, bile and your own semen all at once. I'll wait until you're doubled over on the ground, knowing you're going to die because no one is calling an ambulance for you.

Then I'll agree with you. You'll know how it feels. . . then.

Oh, and make sure you do all of this right before the fucking holidays. Because your sense of timing has always been a keen one.