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.