My love for you has grown into some type of sick obsession.
Since the day you left me, I've been scribbling hate-fueled love poems dedicated to you on decaying stalls in the girls bathroom.
I'd do anything to taste your kiss.
I wanna let my fingernails scale down your spine, leaving scratches, welps, deeper than any sinkhole known to man.
And when your girlfriend back home is disrobing you, ready to partake in the act of bodies becoming one, and asks you where you got them, lie barbarically, and tell her your cat did it.
I sit alone, in my homemade bathtub sanctuary, with nothing more than a bottle full of my favorite fruity poison, and a hand, filled with my dignity and my ego.
I'd sit up all night, drinking til the horses, the ducks, the pigs, and the cows come home, inputting a 1+ area code followed by seven numbers in sequential order...as long as it would lead me to your voice on the other line.
I'm way too proud to beg, for you, I grovel.
To relieve the pain of losing you, cold metal blades to wrist, RED!, does no good for me.
You see, baby, in order to recover from a heartbreak from a first love, it is you, that will have to do the cutting.
I give you the honor of administering Wolfgang Amadeus Mozarts, Violin Concerto #4 in D Major to my wrists and hands, decapitate the one thing, other than my heart, that I wanted you to hold.
"This the way they'd love, if they knew how misery loved me."
© Malix Mechü
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