Oh, you horrid little thing.
Back in my head again, worming your way through my thougts even now.
It's like you've got a sixth sense when bad times come my way, as if you're sitting around and waiting for the exact worst possible moment to dial me up again.
And you pleaded this time...Well, wasn't that sweet.
The words I told you weren't bullshit, they never have been. Nothing would make me happier than to see your name in the obituaries, to envy the coroner lucky enough to dip their hands inside of you. I find myself wondering in my idiot moods if your intestines would be rose vines, or gilded, or maybe covered in soot. Maybe you'd be as full of shit literally as you were physically, or maybe you'd be as hollow as the words you spoke. That'll be for the morticians to find out though, those lucky, blessed bastards.
You've been in my dreams again, by dearest little cancer; your face drifts up with all the most painful memories, all the loveliest torments and all the days I'd love to forget. Hearing your voice still wrenches at me somewhere, though out of hate or love I doubt I'll ever know. We'll settle on both, then, leeching off of each other, just like we did back then. Suffocating, manipulating, fucking and fucking over...the analogies could go on for hours. But then again, so did you.
I have to admit, though...even now, hearing you plead makes me smile.
Hearing the your voice thick with tears, crocodile or not, made me happy.
I'll always hold the image of you at your weakest, curled into the tiniest corner like a child, burdened down by lies and bullshit, and so utterly out of my reach.