Sometimes I want to slam my fist into your windpipe, with enough force to crush it. Just so you’d stop talking for a bit, because the way you talk about me; to me; around me… makes me feel so god(s) damn beautiful. Do you have any idea what we do to beautiful things, in the back alleys and shady neighborhoods of my consciousness? Actually, I bet you do. You’re that kind of cruel and unusual.
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