Flavour

Your brand of love is wasted on me;

rough and bitter, yuck, and I don't think

I want that i my coffee.

For every heart, a connoisseur, maybe.

I'm sure you'll find somebody

who might love

the way you love.

Because I don't.

No, Fucker, I disapprove of the lies you weave,

and your sick need to deceive.

For no good reason, talk shit about your friends

and share our numbers, like casual brothers,

with your band of undead kin, in hopes of entangling

the folks you claim you love

in all your spins.

Like it's a thing

that should

CONTINUE

to be a thing.

I don't care how you think

your brand of love

is top-shelf excellence

the way it is.

I'm telling you,

it tastes of nothing

but a dash of make-believe and desperation.

Crap, like.

But maybe,

I don't have the palette for bullshit.

So, better luck finding

a treat for all your tricks.

One who embraces all your complexities

and doesn't fixate on the mix.