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Corrine Bailey Rae - My Love

Wake up to this song.

all the wrong women in one

She beckons; she calls. She squirms and writhes like a tantrum spinning heat. She fucks anywhere on anything. The black tar covered street hugs her in a tattooed embrace. Where does she end and the night life begin? How do her bones not break the skin? I collapse in my exhaustion and loose myself in the falling canopy of brunette vines, tangled, searching, begging to breach her blossom.

She runs with a heat I can't seem to cool. There's a fire that lights her life and every sip burns my tongue. I can't keep myself from tasting her. No matter how much I blow inside, it never cools that temper spiking her glass mid sentence. Pulling towards the bedroom before I can pick the glass from my feet and tares me apart. Find me past the door led to by crimson steps.

She becomes a person in the wild. Something about the moon and stars that calm her as if the light from the sun is too intentional for her to stand and the competition rages on who can glow brighter before extinguishing. This is the time for soft kisses and easy motion. Subtle breath and pert nipples. I must turn off the lights. I want to feel for you. I want to sail longer into the calm waves of her breath. Eventually the courage is built up to stand the stature of giants and whisper the lights out.

Turning the lights back on is as simple as opening my eyes. Pressed between the cold stainless bar top and the scorching embers forming her lips. I'm back in the twisted wreck of the city life she so loves to endure. She does not elude me but she is alike catching a spark from the ignition. The twinkle in father's eye. Life in the grand spectrum. Fleeting by nature and leaving my lips blistered. I am at the head of her ship without a wheel, braving her tantrums and breathing her calms.

She is an ever emblazoned ship turning the storm and I am the foolish slave captain more than willing to go down on her. I will burn in her embrace or drown trying. For her I hold my breath.

small town asylum

Can you expand to contract within the confines of six planes constructed to cover your escape? I'm a universe packed into the confines of a 8'x9'x9' box.

The outlines of a few books are having a hard time becoming something greater than outlines. They chatter their teeth with nervousness waiting to be filled in with poetry and history. They are flexible, they are the tiny rubber body of a water balloon held tight to the faucet by childhood fingers waiting to be filled to the brink, waiting to be tossed or torn peeling from the faucet. Itching to be grazed by a blade of grass and it's entrails to flee from the point of explosion and thinly bless the hot concrete with cool expression. It relieves our toes, it gives us comfort, it allows us to feel a bit more connected through a network of feet, of childhood memory.

There's great gravity within me. There's a black hole pulling in every inch of my skin, every feeling of comfort, of love, of hatred, of guilt... of carelessness, of adventure, of childhood, of resentment, of hurt, of worry, of insecurity, and pride. Every desire, every word... It's a struggle day to day to retain the integrity of my frame. My bones full of fractures, my muscles ache, my stomach is twirled like spaghetti, my colon is puckered, and my heart struggles to beat. I am terrified of the day it can dissipate, the day my universe is created. My memory, my mark, my spittle upon the face of time. My insignificance is important to me but it would be great if you let in envelop you. If you let it cool your toes. If you let it connect us. For a moment, maybe, you won't feel so alone.

cumbersome cumber-bun

Peering down the runway, I've got quite the balls standing here, breathing in the rising, toxic cloud of burning rubber. 747 a mile down the runway, playing chicken, clearing thousands of feet faster than I can kill a meter.

Mixing metric with the imperial.

She's rubbing my back while I make an ass out of myself, simmering in a solid drunk, spewing words in an excitant rant. It's been a while since I've felt the brooding fist of insecurity blow me in the stomach and leave me adrift with my broken tongue for a paddle.

I've been trying to make friends that I consider more intelligent than myself. It helps me improve myself, more times than not. Sometimes it helps me realize the extent of my own stupidity oozing from my nostrils like a fat, urban child. To hell with feeling bad about my lack of intellect, most of the new words I learn I learn after horribly misspelling a word and finding something that fits the ideal better.

Even keels are hard to find. It seems I run into a concise idiot or a blithering genius. Not true, I simply just described my binary attributes. But I can't seem to find that person that is alike myself. That constantly conflicted person hoping for a similar introspection.

To the more recent of friends I have made,

I'm sorry for my display of complete drunken, ass-hole behavior. Satire is my home, and I forget at times, that I come off as just a misogynistic prick. You're an intelligent person and I loved picking your brain, your insults and opinions were all well put together, and you were like a precision swordsmen with your sharp criticism of my ideals. But you have underestimated my wit; my acknowledged white, male privilege. I am very aware of the way things are, and if I didn't poke fun at it constantly in my own way, I'd have decorated my walls with brain tissue long ago.

It is my struggle, my dilema, and if it wasn't for Kolin, I would still feel completely alone in my view of our society. It's hard being the villain, but it's the role I want to play. I want to scream loudly the injustices of our day-to-day through practice. The more I point out the way many people live their lives, the selfishness, the hoarding, the misogyny, the deceit, the lies. I am the schoolyard boy telling all the girls the veiled secrets of our order while all the other boys have their index finger keeping a place on their lips trying to keep my lips sealed.

I'm no martyr though. It's just the shit that spews from my mouth. I can't back up most of that jibe with action. I do indeed sleep around but not for a second do I put into practice the cold lust that is the playing field I allude to. There's a reason I'm friends with most of the woman I've poked around in, and it's that I've treated them with the utmost respect. I bow and pray to the goddesses of our cities and streets.

untitled (incomplete works)

I know the moment I kiss her... first blood has been drawn.

The water is boiling and I have nothing to sneak the pot off the burner without loosing the skin on my hand. She's scolding hot, every inch burns my fingers to the bone where I'll leave trails of smoldering skin around her axis. It hurt to touch you... it hurt to press my cold, def lips to yours.

You're a bundle or wonderment, you're a measure of mystery I cannot define. You're the shadow with light emblazoned ink around your corpse. I was left aghast while you led me outside bellow the cherry blossom tree. Water scraping the pedals, fragmenting the world around us. I could see through you without knowing a thing about you, like a ghost left unquestioned.

But the melencholy

as soon as i'm cumming (incomplete works)

...I'm done.

My bed is a butcher's block, bickering and brilliant.

Hand in pants

sew together your corpse on toes where your hea dis mounted on teh bed stead.

untitled (incomplete works)

I've refused to sway her words; to tell her what she wants to hear. Things become a little too specific when we let someone down softly. It's tact... it's ingenuine. Either way we still walk hand in hand down the streets bearing shells and keeping ourselves safe. It's a triumph I embarked on truth.

random acts of scripture (incomplete works)

I was a tuna in a sea full of sharks. A yellow jacket caught in the suction of the freeway. A tree in an avalanche. A jellyfish in the desert. A spider in the shower. A lone soldier against the Persian hoards. A bottle of beer at an AA meeting. A joint in the seventies. A child in Africa. A beggar on Broadway. Tied to the tracks with razor wire tight around my neck. A deer on the tracks. A homosexual in the Marines. A planet swirling into the center of a black hole, oblong to the point of taring in two. A joke at a funeral. A fart in a wind tunnel. A fact at Fox News.

What I'm getting at is, I never stood a chance.

I am seventeen years old and I'm absolutely infatuated with her. She's blond, short, with a great amount of meat on her, and I'm still awkward with a mouth full of metal and cement, pending a job well done. For whatever reason she insists on us. She insists on my insurgency on her relationship. She kisses me outside her house, and even though my tire popped on the way home, my heart was still in the throat awaiting my descent from the clouds on that crisp, impossibly cold night. For a second I was in absolute, chaotic, immature love.

My occupancy lasted a long while until she moved swiftly in to our home. She had no father there for her, no supportive brother, nothing she could latch her teeth into. I was there, blood and flesh and brain all googly over her just waiting to reach her lower intestine to finish digestion. It was too much, I couldn't stand being the solemn turd in her life. One day I was passed, I was ready to be expelled from her rotting carcass of a woman's body and vacate into the wild world.

It goes without saying I am weak, only eighteen by this point, still persuaded heavily by the warm, wet, smooth, pulsing flower between her legs. Constantly she would purchase my temporary affection for fickle, surrendered, furious, stranded passion. It was wonderfully pathetic, wonderfully adolescent. I was eighteen and I had already been so ready to abandon this cruelly obscure first relationship.

When she eventually moved, the brides didn't stop. I was weak to pleasing her, I cared more for her than I cared for myself, for my family. She was pathetically insane, lurching every so often back in my life with a freshly powdered nose wired to the teeth with enthusiasm. Neurotic quips filled the air on our claim less drives. She threatened to cut herself, to fuck my friends, to kill herself... speeding a half a hundred miles an hour through the hills of home.

I stood my ground as well as a boat in a waking sea. She simply had to send a line across to my ears and I heed the call from any distance. I loved her. I cared about her so fool heartily, but I refused to commit the last percent. That was what was left of my individuality. I met other woman, I met many other woman, but she was a soar on the back of my throat, reminding me every time I had to swallow the excessive juice flowing through my mouth.

Eventually I received the call, after her clear acts of insanity. The men grabbing her through the wall, the yanking and hiding of many a razor. I was on suicide watch for a large amount of that year. Powder control, pill control, alcohol control. She had nobody but me and I've never been the person to relinquish my grip on a friend left in the dark, although the door is slamming on my wrist, and no one is here to help.

She stabbed him. She did it for me. A man providing her with cocaine and wild accusations, a man who threatened to do me severe harm. She was nearly dead when they found her, open and bleeding on the bathroom floor, knuckles white from clasping the knife. She lived... he lived...

Finally her family returns my calls for help. She did it for me... I owe her. I need to be there for her. I need to drop what little of my life I still had for her. I was never so willing to check out. Her jaw had been removed with the impossibly strong jaws of life. I checked out.

I think of my first relationship and don't wonder why I handle relationships the way I do. I'm honest, I don't manipulate, I don't promise. But when I am ridiculed so passionately about my independence, about my sexual habits, my promiscuity, my opinion of equality, my bitterness. It was you who molded me like this, and this is why you love me so. This was just the first of too many mind fucks for a young kid. I'm no longer dizzy.

there are only round holes (incomplete works)

As far back as I can remember I was always getting into trouble with society. I can't say if it was learned or if it was something I was born with, a defect of sorts, the inability to assimilate into an organized environment. Throughout my public school career I was put into special programs, held after class, given numerous tests, and for the most part, cast aside when I couldn't be diagnosed with the then new ADD scapegoat. They at least acknowledged 'artistic' talent, but even then they tried to take that away and mold it into their idea of creativity, of art. That was a catalyst to even more scrutiny, as I began drawing monsters covered in the blood of a recent victim who's limbs had been scattered amongst the environment. It was inadvertently my way of saying 'Fuck off.' It impressed my brothers; they were the only people I wanted to impress, but the school system took this as a sign of a lost hope; that I was deranged or retarded. It was overlooked, my way of expressing a rough home life. It was all too natural, their ability to take something so wildly innocent and demonize it, pervert it. I simply refused to be pliable, to be molded by their clammy hands into something they wanted so badly to at least remotely resemble a round peg. I could just see them converging over me; salivating uncontrollably; extending their arms around me, in anticipation of the moment I finally give in, or to stop me from ever taking off as an oblong failure of theirs. I could feel their anxiety... but the day never came. I was an obscure spectacle of a sculpture, resembling nothing we could define with normal verbiage or geometry. I was very much pliable to the right hands; but as soon as unwanted hands got a hold I would harden, stiffen up, and crack into dust and blow away.

It was one day I unintentionally began my rebut; my retaliation; my liberation of mind. I did not understand the importance of relinquishing myself from society's firm grasp, but first strike took place in the coarse sandbox of third grade. We used to play there near the edge where a friend and I began to dig a tunnel under the concrete sidewalk that lined the box. We had imagined we could dig under the classroom and escape whenever we needed to be revitalized by the cool air and warm, natural light. In our heads we were close, although in reality we still had months of vigorous work ahead of us. Lunch was only forty minutes long, but we had the time paradox of our imaginations.

It was devastating to our young courage, our hopes, when we stumbled one lunch to a taped off area where we dug. Our pathetic tunnel had been filled with cement and neatly flattened to conform to the neat appearance of the sidewalk where we filed in from lunch. They were sneaky, smart, to take advantage when we were in the confines of our bungalow classrooms and bars formed by the fear of punishment from our parents. We stared at it outside the quarantined area in dismay. We could not fathom what to do or how then, we would escape our classrooms during the great sunny days. I decided then, that this wall of wet, still drying cement was ours. That they were finally pliable to my will, to my expression. I opened my lunchbox, handed my bite sized snack of sorts to my friend, and we began decorating the tombstone. We did this for twenty minutes till we had a mural laid out, to our smothered screaming out desire to escape. Society had tried to drown our flames with gasoline; we were set ablaze from that point. The terms of war had been declared, and I was ready for any consequence.

A tall shadow overtook our position, it was the then endlessly large silhouette of the yard aid. We were brought like POWs to the principle, where our parents were called in to witness our spectacle, our civil disobedience. I was devastated, not understanding yet the price of the damage we had done. I was scared, we were poor, that we would lose our home to rectify the damages. I'm not sure what price my parents paid for half the damages, maybe a meager fifteen dollars, but the price for me was infinite. And it was worth it, spending the next lunch writing out my punishment. The standards 'I will not kick wet cement and I will not put my snack in it'. It was my battle standard I was forced to write a few hundred times, I ignored the 'not's in my head, and even then refused to do things their way. A few hundred 'I's, then a few hundred 'w's, a few hundred 'i's all in a scattered line across the pages. Till the punishment was done, with disdain, my way, and no one else's. I took control wherever I could since then, throughout life. It was the day this war was declared and I never let up, until I realized society had no grasp on me... it's hands had long retreated, and I was overshadowing it, influencing it, chipping away at it's solid walls. I was dedicated to take every opportunity to leave my mark on the wet cement, to tear it down, to show then, that it belonged to me, to us, that my constituents and I would not falter. Not until the round brace around every individual was removed, and we could all take whatever shape we so then desired.

untitled (incomplete works)

Sometimes there's a word I want on the cusp of my subconscious mind that just won't make the transition. If I could just acquire the word I'd know exactly how to start this rant... but it's gone... shit...

This man is me. A past tense man, but a man none the less. I used to head to the shelves of the library and stare at books I might want to participate in. I'd see a good color cover and lift the book from it's methodical positioning on the rack. I'd thumb through the pages to the end and see how long the book was, give it a nice light lift, and if the book was too rotund, too substantial, I'd put it back.

Little did I know it wasn't a cover wrapped around a spine holding together a stack of pages in order that make the book so heavy. It's the words that give a book weight. It took me courage to finally think I had the intelligence to read. To take it ten ton ideals and thoughts without dropping the book and shattering it's spine.

I discovered sentences I could tie to my feet to drown in the oceans of madness introduced by Henry Miller. Paragraphs and pages so profoundly rich with substance you no longer find it hard to fathom the mass of stars in space, but how with the practice of thought, you could introduce ideas so stiflingly rotund in something so simple as letters on paper.

I hold the book and I cannot believe I am holding it without assistance. Just a word has buried me deep in the cliff sides. I am at the base, struggling to breath, to take in the deep granite edge.

untitled (incomplete works)

Stream of thought.

It's beautiful outside. The ground is radiating with heat provided by light straight from the sun. It beams brightly down on this hell I'm in, this maze of sedetary, suburban homes.

My biggest problem is expressing this frustration. It's easy to ignore or to deny certain facets of American living from the haven of Santa Cruz, but here in Calabasas, it's so apparent the sorry state of our culture.

Kolin and I driving down to Monterrey began talking about our parents. About their dream of us going to college, of us becoming part of the upper-middle class, of their grandchildren, their lineage, their mark. We began to wonder and acknowledge that we are now how are parents once were. That they too had dreams and ideals that spanned the void of class, their eyes were open, they wanted change, but at some point they burried it. They gave it up to settle down and play it safe.

It terrifies me, to think that one day I will be like my father. That I will slowly settle for the class structure, consumerism, and materialism our parents settled for. That I will lose interest in science and attribute faith to those that invest in it. The same faith they attribute their superstition...

I have yet to decide if I want to visit certain friends out here in Los Angeles county. My friend Chris, for example, who once was someone I shared so many mindsets, has come back from Iraq, devoted himself to his Mormon faith, and allowed himself to be swallowed by what is to me, a morally compromised lifestyle. Chris is a LAPD officer. Innocent Chris, so conflicting, now marked a hero, a Christian, a ripe candidate for middle class America. They gave him a badge and a gun. Chris, who ripped the door knob off his parent's front door, screaming how their religion depraves him and his brothers, how it brainwashes, how it negates all the evil things his father had done, screaming as I dragged him away.

#Lit #incomplete #works

I don't always post pictures, but when I do...

children at night

I've never been comfortable in this house I've grown up in. It's old and shaky; it moans with the discourse of time. I relive nightmares here. The real bumps in the night and ghosts that haunt me wherever it is I go. They are at their most vivid here. They scream whispers while I am trying to sleep; squeezing my eyes tight trying to tune out the hymns they sing gently into my ear. I can still feel their breath while I walk the hallways. I can hear the pounding in the walls making my heart race as if it is the first time I had heard them.

The yelling... the wretched yelling that shakes me to my very core still echoes here. The slow, raking footsteps down the stairs like waiting for molasses to drip from a jar and fall to the floor. But nothing ever hits the floor; never is anything there.

The tall man who's neck bends to the height of the ceiling; his knuckles drag along the brittle carpet. He paces silently at the edge of my bed without the slightest hint of harming me... but he never knew how he kept me asleep; how he kept me pale blue, holding my breath knowing the slightest utterance of exhale would teach him of my presence.

It was my brother who first saw him, and then my lover. It was the description that terrified me. Up until they told me of their dreams, I always thought it was just a dream of my own. I could never explain the bruises on my neck, or the bites on my arm. The child who played with me at night, or the woman who crossed the hallway.

It was always so still when I'd follow my father's footsteps downstairs, thinking we could sneak a few cookies before sleep, finding no one was there. It's so alone in the dark when you follow your own neglect. It's hard to sleep when you fear the reality of your nightmares.

It's been one night since I've been back to this house and I've already had trouble sleeping, finding my locked door wide open when I awake.

#Lit #damn #i #hate #being #home #in #LA

dr.thursday

Maybe I could scrape the sheets for remnants of women I have lusted and piece together a lover.

sedatives

I'm delusional thinking I can change the things in this world that cause me frustration. I'm figuring out the only thing I have control over is myself... most of the time. I've conceived a large variety of ways to do this throughout my life. How do I change myself to deal with the tragedy of existence?

I started with something simple, something so encouraged by society it was simple, easy, and right in front of me. I sat for hours, distracting myself from thought. Sedatives. Television, video games, the internet, drugs, alcohol, women, drawing, writing, hiking, porn, friends, parties, biking, tinkering, bleeding, talking, sleeping, dancing... it goes on and on... some more productive than others, but really, when it came down to remedying my conflicts, they just sedated me. They turn my brain off; they kept me from thinking critically; expressing the frustration with no solutions.

I did this guilt free. I justified it by spreading the word about social problems, about genocides, about plagues, and famine. It might have been the bare minimum, but as long as I had the internet, I could tell thousands I cared just by linking a vague article, or by running my mouth with friends over a beer. This made me feel better about sitting around all day keeping my brain running on fumes. Until I seemed to have a revelation at my worst... I hated what I was doing to myself.

Sedatives leave a residue... even when you acknowledge the state of disconnection you're in you can't just wake up. I've been challenging this numbness every day since the day it occurred to me. It was a day I realized that although I felt my eyes had been open for so long, I was still staring at a closed curtain. A thick burgundy curtain hiding me from the world... and I was exhausted. It was so simple too, I finally got up in my cloud and realized I was just in a fog at the same level as everyone else. Seeing others at eye level allowed me to see that these mind sets I looked down on were exactly what I was harboring within my own head.

I was tired of convincing myself I could ignore these things that made me so conflicted, so angry, so desperate because I was at least doing more than my peers that did nothing... I was wrong.

Now that I can see my error in ideals, where do I go now? How do I refuse the sedatives now when I am at my most insecure; my most vulnerable? Change the game. Turn these things that distracted me into the things that awakened me. To use television, video games, the internet, drugs, alcohol, women, drawing, writing, hiking, porn, friends, parties, biking, tinkering, bleeding, talking, sleeping, dancing, etc. to actively reflect on what it is I am doing. How am I contributing to the bettering of my life?

The things that poison me, that I couldn't use for inspiration, were making me stagnant. They were poison, and I restrict now, the things that sedate me. The liberal talk shows that convinced me I had a voice in mainstream media; that made me feel less alone in my ideals. The friends that kept me drunk and distracted with drama. The women who try and convince me I need love and a body to sleep soundly; that romantic thinking was productive and enlightening... when the truth is, it left me alone in the dark and befuddled.

Once the curtain allowed me a crack into what it was I was missing, I saw nothing but myself. I needed introspection, I needed to acknowledge my human condition and stop considering myself an intellectual above the peasants. I decided I would bury myself bellow them, I would allow them to step on me and stick their noses up at me so I could begin to find them fascinating again. To look up to people as possibly accomplishing incredible things... to see heroes again.

Now I know the great things people are capable of, but I feel we are all much more willing to acknowledge the great things we can do. What I wanted to witness, were the truths. The taboo, the horrible, the worst, the tragic things we are so very capable of. I wanted to kill the romantic... I wanted to kill the notions of angels in society and see ourselves for the animals we are. That selfish actions were natural.

But there are rules... It is obvious to me I cannot apply these things to everyone, these things are strictly to apply to myself; to know the horrible things I can be capable of. To teach myself how selfish I am. To become the villain in society. To be honest in my intentions. To be honest with myself... to wake up and see the damage my vanity and lavish lifestyle do to the world around me.

Once I can see these "evils" in their purest sense, can I really then begin to express them. To become so aware of them, that then solutions too, would become so obvious. That I didn't need to try and change people, but if I could just change myself for the better, it was enough. That this ideal, once applied, began to allow me a lightness. That I was no longer burdened by the lifestyles of others because I was so busy thinking critically how I could minimize my impact on society; the environment; everything. As long as I did what I could not to enable the things I declared a threat to this world, I could feel better about myself. I no longer feel so selfish, but I maintain I am still...

It is this mentality that allows me to be truly selfless. To do things I feel help my peers, to be kind. To never expect anything in return... that these acts of kindness, of selflessness were not an investment I merely could expect a return on. They were simply actions I felt cost me little to nothing and provide positive interactions in my life. I guess we could debate if my actions provide positive results, it isn't truly selfless, but the argument is moot. Either way, I feel kindness is a duty, something I owe to myself.

Now what to do now... this is a fractured ideal I am still working on, but for me, it's working. It's so unnatural to be honest with ourselves, to be self deprecating. I still lie to myself unknowingly. I still actively deceive myself. The settling thing is, at least now I can catch myself once in a while, and see things a bit more clearly.

Now, I'm not saying I'm some neurotic ball of happiness. It is more, I am more capable with this view, to really feel sadness, to really feel frustration. To appreciate these things because now I can really know why I feel these things. It helps me to express myself and keep myself from being so conflicted... although... I am still very much conflicted.

#sedatives #lit #wanna #make #out?

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The Wedgewoods - Jesus Was a Pirate

Shit I used to listen to.

wanting to write about you

I've got shivers longing for you. To run tips across that rough cold skin cringing on your backside moving smoothly over the dips on your lower back. I could touch you for hours without so much as a careless thought, you are my charmer, my distraction, my off switch. I love you in a pure sense. No fairy tale, just here on your belly chewing on your lip squirming in my bed. I want you. I want you in unimaginable ways. I want you like I can't have and it's relentless.

Your smile is a fist around the bones of my frame testing it's integrity. I am wavering. I am running my hands on dunes of your forsaken rump. You are here and you fill the entire room. There is no crack or crevice that escapes you... there is no cell or vein void of the entirety that is you. You are a ghost that haunts my blind soul. I long to suffocate.

I don't want to risk even kissing you. It's not the explosion, it's the sinking content I will fall deeply into when your lips touch mine; as if my life retreats from my body into the cavity in my chest. It contracts from my toes, from my hands, from the hair on my head into a condensed ball in my torso. The harder you press the denser the ball becomes and all at once it releases as soon as you retreat and sends waves of fragmented fiberglass throughout my body.

This dancing flame balanced on a thin wick knows just what I can handle, revealing only fragments of you violently with every subtle breath. I get nervous when the breath is too heavy, if flicker bends too far and breaks the flame, you'd vanish in the remnants and twirl of smoke tying me alone to my thought.

You make killing the romantic an impossibility. You are the ideal I so long for to embrace and crush. You are why I cannot set sail as my ship has been shattered by the shallow crags of your ocean. I've been set to drown deep in your canyons, but I can't even hold my breath, all I can do is breath deep the sweet salty substance that fills you. That makes you mysterious and calm. And I do not wait to inhale this love that will kill me.

I miss you, and I honestly wish this could come back to us.

#Lit #romantic #sappy #crap #killing #the #living

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