Don’t you love the way your hands fit
to my throat?
Don’t you love how you can
reduce me to nothing?
I am nothing,
everything. Yours,
and gone.
If you ever loved me,
if you ever knew me,
if I was ever anything to you
other than broken,
tighten your grip,
so you can let me go.
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About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
That’s damn harsh. Sing it, Jones. Sing it loud.