I've held in my hands, my intestines, for ten years. Presenting the wounds, the knots, the self repairs. (and you) Even in my dreams you're fucking ugly. You soaked them in alcohol, an anesthetic disguised, before the match. I'm not one for revenge, (eye for and eye is a lie for lie to yourself) but the last time we fucked I imagined you gutted. There was no blood. I never saw you bleed. Alas, without your disgusting fucking hollow self, I wouldn't have taken several planes, praying for hell, landing on an undiscovered island of painless fire and tangible dreams, surrounded by the tears of Azlan. So, I thank you. So, I brand myself: Regret's for the birds.
Гуру Песен