I fucking love you so much. I love your idiocy and your incompetence and your sweetness in tandem. I dream of breaking your see-through heart and wake up to text messages, phone calls, and your over-indulgent words: “forever” and “never,” please “always stay.” I know when you’re selling me something, but I’d buy a billion crappy kitsch pieces as long as they were coming from you, beautiful fucker. I peek under the desks and rifle through the cabinets of your mind because I want all of it. Anything that has to do with you. You’re fucking gold to me. Gold and diamindis. I feel Shakespearean about you- the way you say Babe could be a stand in for a lovelorn soliloquy. I have a tendency to be unhappy most of the time, and your existence threatens my painstakingly cultivated hedonistic contentedness. But you could hold that rusty switchblade you keep tucked away in your back pocket against my throat and I wouldn’t fucking question it. My irrational addiction for you over the banality of complacency always. You over the rest always, or at least until I’ve had my fill. You ail me chronically. I’m so full of shit and thoughts of you and love for you and wanting you and needing you. I need to have my stomach pumped. Concuss me, I’ve got one too many memories of you.