I have a sweet tooth for the feeling of my gut being wrenched,
so wrap your calloused fingers around my esophagus and squeeze until I look worried;
until my eyes start bulging or I throw up
or I get this out of my system.
I have a sweet tooth for the feeling of my gut being wrenched,
so dig me a grave.
There’s dirt under my own fingernails from
burying all the happiness I would have had if I hadn’t thought every goddamn thing in my life to absolute death.
Rest In Peace, my quiet mind.
It’s too bad we never got the chance to meet.