He is every poem I write, every song I hear, the discord in the notes between, the space where we distort facts into feelings, reality into a kind of waking dream.
There’s a part of me praying he will keep the door locked tight. I can’t bear to see the hope above despair when he looks at me, a succubus for emotional storms in Courier face.
you’re a fraud you’re a make you’re a fucked up delusion, leave him alone, he’s not your Britney Spears
And what of Valentine’s Day? I will run and run and run and run away.