I could make you green tea, then spike it with half a bottle of vodka so that you hate it even more when it washes down your throat.
I could paint you a picture of your mother cradling you as a kid, and then set fire to the loving arms and the affectionate eyes till there's nothing let of that memory but ruined embers.
I could buy you your favourite records and then smash them against the wooden floor and watch them shatter into a thousand broken and unmendable pieces that lie around cluttering your vision.
I could write you a brilliant story - one that binds you to it's pages and leaves you aching for more and then murder all the characters you've grown fond of just to watch you cry yourself to sleep asking why.
I could just kill you with an extra dose of morphine so easily accessible to me, but then what good would that be compared to the slow torture called life ?
I could paint you a picture of your mother cradling you as a kid, and then set fire to the loving arms and the affectionate eyes till there's nothing let of that memory but ruined embers.
I could buy you your favourite records and then smash them against the wooden floor and watch them shatter into a thousand broken and unmendable pieces that lie around cluttering your vision.
I could write you a brilliant story - one that binds you to it's pages and leaves you aching for more and then murder all the characters you've grown fond of just to watch you cry yourself to sleep asking why.
I could just kill you with an extra dose of morphine so easily accessible to me, but then what good would that be compared to the slow torture called life ?
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