I love …

I love being with people but they

don’t like being with me.

I love seeing for people but they

don’t like seeing for me.

I love fleeing for people but they

only flee from me.

I love fucking people (in the nice

way, you understand), but 

they only ever answer

my pleas[e] by fucking me over,

over and over and

over, you know.

And when they fuck me over

it’s never really explicit.

It’s just that they ignore what

I do, what

I am, what I could’ve been

for you,

and you and you.

What I do wish 

you’d one day

rue you’d gone and missed, is

when you realised all 

the kisses you’d lost from

my being

by not giving 

a toss 

whether I died or lived.

That’s what one day

I don’t expect yous to 

rue at 

all, but which

I am sure if you tried

even you could

do.

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