Your fiction is depleting, convictions misleading. Stop yelling. I’m leaving.  I’m broke down. I’m fed up. It’s no longer appealing. Don’t you fucking judge me. You raise the questions and pray to god that we don’t know the answers. But while you slept we chartered the blessed around in the careless fashion of the long forgotten three and coloured the edges so we’d appear ripe for the taking. But don’t you dare ask for forgiveness, you’ll be driven into the sea. I can’t believe you would bother me with such blatant triviality.

But it’s fine. Really… Cancer is more selective than you’re ‘love’.

Heavy hopes will weigh you down while you swim for the shore. With luck you’ll be forced to ask yourself “what’s more important?” And if you don’t make it at least we’ll know all your conclusions were poorly drawn. There’s not a damn thing you know about me that gives you the right to make a gallows call. Especially when you’re the kind of girl that gets her name written all over bathroom stalls. But that’s neither point nor parcel… You’ll find the real issue is wrapped tightly around the foundations of your crooked castle.

When they slip the noose down around my head I hope you know I’ll be smiling the whole time. Because there’s nothing you could have ever done to keep me in check. But it will serve us right. There’s nothing more romantic than snap of your pride or the feel of the executioners breath upon my neck.