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Keep on swimming, little fish. I’ll catch you soon enough.
Does death have a schedule?
I’m kissing death, I’m making out with the fucker,
Can’t the world take one moment and pause so I can listen to this woman talk?
“Where’d you learn to laugh? Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice, but warn someone next time before you throw them into shock."
Her only job is sitting there, looking pretty, and ensuring I don’t get killed.
Okay, so I hate the ocean, sky, planes, and Ferris wheels. Have I mentioned I’m fucking terrified of ships, too?
it’s beneath us to bother with send-offs, for ‘as long as the job gets done right, we will see each other again.’
I never claimed to be a good person, but I have good intentions.
I’ve wondered what she’d feel like as her life drained from her body in my hands. Would she be afraid? Would I do it quickly or slowly? Would she even stand a fighting chance against me? But in none of my imagined scenarios was I envisioning her body, cold and slack and at the mercy of my seas.
There are those eyes.
I was born for my role; he was tossed into it,
I couldn’t care less about the lives I take, but the lives I lose are a different story—an
“I’m sorry. Are you flirting with me or threatening me? I can’t tell—"
I’m fucked, and I’m done fighting it–with myself. She can have my damn soul if that’s what she wants–if that’s what it takes to keep the girl I saw last night.
If I want to be the best, I need to know how to handle the worst.
I’m not sad or embarrassed–there's no reason to be–I’m fucking pissed.
As much as I love the fire she possesses, I miss that fleeting moment when her features softened, and she appeared to be nothing more than an innocent woman searching for a way out.
She calls me sick regularly, but I’m not ill–I’m fucking psychotic when it comes to her.
My eyes flick between hers, genuinely confused about how she’s so afraid of the ocean, yet she holds it in her eyes.
I’d be lying if I said those tear-filled eyes weren’t the absolute highlight of my life.
Why can’t I just enjoy my inner monologue in peace?
“Because every breath I take reminds me of you.”
“You’ve made me so sick that I had to ink you into my skin
I hate her. I hate everything she is—her twisted head, the freckles that paint her cheeks. I even hate the ocean she holds in her eyes.
he's not the monster that haunts my nightmares; he's my dream come true—sick tendencies as all.
