Heartbreak is not poetic.
It’s itchy dissatisfaction.
The idea of wine is much richer than the taste.
Life isn't shielded behind a rose-tinted filter,
everything is grey and uncomfortable.
I want to lay intertwined with you, listening to rainfall against the windowsill but your breath stinks and I have to pee.
You’ll never walk into a room in slow motion, sex will never come with the perfect background music.
The perfect boy will cheat on you and leave you scratching at your unworthy skin.
The blade is too dull to break skin, you'll dig and scratch but you won't see blood.
The scabs will burn into the shower and stick to your sleeves,
and there is nothing poetic about that.