If Thoughts Could Kill, We'd Both be Deader Than a Week-Old Corpse

please abuse me with fists perfectly formed. bite off my tongue so i wont say a word (the anger dulls your beauty - the alcohol washes it completely away.)... a cantankerous cacophony of calamity. consume conscience but claim control. (and its only now i realize that i've overexposed myself)... i no longer believe in angels.