- Dating, Lifestyle, Raunch
You don’t have anything nice to say.
Sugar gives you aches.
Don’t expect the world to be safe or life to be fair.”
― Helen Fielding, Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination
Promises were meant to be broken, pinky swears are for the hopeless. He’s doing drugs. He’s lying next to me with his knicker boxers, he’s tickling me, he’s leaving me Tums, he’s slipping almonds in my drawer tagged “I know you like NUTZ,” He’s misspelling all over the place. He’s working 15 hour days, he’s an absolute treasure. He’s your peephole into a world that doesn’t get you.
He’s addicted. He likes the center. Over the attention. He wants the backflip, over the lamp post, bigger than the hypernoodle. He will race anyone down a waterfall of alcohol, better brute first. His coating is candy. Honey-even.
He will make your evenings light up like glowing lilies.
He met a gal in rehab. Going strong. People must succumb…To what. They truly are.
Those that love them must fall in line. Fighting back is a heart attack's attack.
He has joy powder.
This is a sort of poison you will deny.
Because you love him.
These are the type of wings you ran away from.
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