Hallmark should write suicide notes

She loves me, she loves me not. I cut myself until I hit a vein. Line after line, I breathe her in. I inhale her until she seeps out, like black love. I so happily bathe in the toxicity of her ways. She showers me with disease, I dispose of mine in a bag. I lay on the floor and look up at her through the glass table. After all, the best view of heaven is from hell. My ears are ringing, the sweet sound of an angel’s song. My right temple is swollen where she threw her neon sign of a halo at me. The phosphor powder glitters on my skin, as she sits in my lap and smiles glowingly. She undresses my thoughts and wears my clothes. I tip her with my two-cents, she’s a millionaire because all I think about is her. I’ve lived a hard life, but she always shows her appreciation. She comes through, all the way to the end. It’s like she’s making a statement, a loud one at that. A testament of true adulation. For only we are bold enough to be damaged.

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