shot, dead

April was never a month for living. Apparently even the world's savior died that month. 18 is a special number. There are 18 holes on a golf course. 18 is the age you are legal to kill in time of war. And on the 18th of April you sent me spiraling deep into a shit hole without a shovel. Right now you are sleeping sound somewhere in Europe. I could give two fucks where. The point is that you are gone, vacant from this poignant cold country I call home. There are leaves stuck to my sock. I wonder, are there dead foliole in Milan?

fuck you im finished

first base was such a long haul away
three months turned into a couple of days
now you're sleeping next to the enemy
what a coincidence, what a bunch of horse shit

your new boyfriend is a fucking bitch

i wait for the sun at 3am
i just can't sleep, because it hurts
all of me aches
everything aches right now
you made it possible, thank you for that
thank you for taking what was once beautiful
and killing it at the root
i could have never predicted
such pain, such bullshit
we will never trade words again
thank you for that
goodbye, you will die without me