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I can't sleep.

This is your fault.

Words kept turning in my head, and they wouldn't leave me alone. Poking and proding, until I jumped out of bed.

So, now they're gone, of course, only to stalk me when my head hits the mattress. I'm yawning. I'm tired.

I want to kiss it and make it better. I want to devour you and then give birth to you so that you would have my green skin, and this is all instinct.

I've been uncomfortably wet for two days.

This is your fault.

You should wish me unrest and torture and everything a jealous lover could wish on someone. I deserve it all.

I'm a bad person. I curse, I drink, I do drugs, I think unthinkable thoughts, I masturbate too often.

I am not selfless. I will take and take because I haven't had.

I want to fuck logic until he wishes he'd never met me.

I want to keep ungodly hours to keep up with you.

I want screaming matches and certainty.

I want to be able to write the disgusting things that tear at my eyes.

I want.

And that's why I am awful.

You would pin my arms above my head and whisper obscenities in my ear. My mouth would be burned into your retinas, when you closed your eyes, you'd see the negative image of me and then I could be good.

12:37 a.m. - 2003-07-30


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