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You're nothing without emotion. Without pain. You crave the twisted tender tragic core of every relationship you've had. You've ripped the skin, let the juices run and the fruit fall to the dirt in your haste to reach it. I hear the arsenic in the honey of your voice, and savor it. Pain is not a treasure. Longing is not a curio to hold fast to. Smoke to taste your malignant kisses. Drink to place your face on others, to feel you near. Snort to dull my self in entirety. You feel he was penance to explain why he did what he did. So your pain has a meaning.
You always get out alive, your heart ritually scarred. Your heart pumping sanguine regret. Twin trails of liquid melancholy run down your face. Your hair rustling false secrets. You seek and consume hollow comfort.