You love the ones who hurt you, ain’t that the truth? 

Am I supposed to say yes? Because I know I’ll smoke my lungs out after he’s gone, like the Marine that left before him. 

Or I’ll be better, I don’t know. Do I want to be better? 

It is a constant choice between living and killing. Aphrodisiacs and poison, the choice is mine. And it’s usually poison. 

Blood as red as the garnet adorning the rings I wear, smoke as grey as the melancholy that tinges everything I see, everything I believe. 


We will talk. And June will come bearing the summer in flames.


4/26/17 KMA


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