His kiss tastes like Turpentine and syrup His breath like Death Or rotting flesh But something made It all seem sweet Like sour milk Or vomit that you Swallow back The only thing Better is A knife and Wrist Or maybe a fix Glass shards as fine As the tender Lines of flesh It chooses to embed The fragments of My very own reality Shatters in my skull My noes bleeds And a baby cries Somewhere in the distance Of a dreamy state of mind Or dreary state of being Is all the same To me This wretched thing That we call love Or wished we could If we really were owners of our own Destiny