Love Spelled Suicide

My library books are overdue. Thinking that, well, screw you. I'm tired of restrictions and limitations. Freedom is what we need. And yet you wouldn't know a good thing if it came and bloodied your knife with her veins. Yeah, that's sadistic. Why don't you go tell someone who cares? This is one of those moments where I let my depression out of it's box. Don't worry, it's on a chain. It won't get close enough to bite. And Faith Hill sings of love with twangy perfection in the background. It'd be great if love wasn't overrated. Infatuation and adoration ain't much better, either. "Ooh I love the way you love the way you love me." And tongue twisters don't spell truth. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. I feel bad his life was so boring. And much too complicated to speak of. It's a like a secret. I'm your dirty little secret. Or maybe you're mine. Either way, we've done much too much to get into heaven. Or maybe, again, that's just me. My soul trumps yours with its filth. A hoover vacuum won't do shit to me. Even with this stream of consciousness, you won't be able to understand how much I'd do for you. Maybe love spelled S-U-I-C-I-D-E is the only way I'll win the Spelling Bee with you. Surprisingly, I only look sweet and innocent. Why don't you help me break in my new shot glass. Give me that liquid fire and laugh when it sears my insides. I can only hope to God that it doesn't bypass my heart. I want it singed blacker than black and beyond repair. It's the only way to keep it whole. Yeah, it's the only way to save my soul.