I’d tit-tape you to stay. But a sticky technique is romantically risky; I’ve not undone a shirt since 2004. Then, I got dumped every 2 months, at bus stops. I was a kiss to recoil from. You recoiled from.
So I’m tit-taping you, cutting ex-wife’s reins from wrists and severing ties to her children. This is not a developmental issue. Her molasses are silicone chrysalises and the kids belong to potent scraps of chat room fuck.
I tit-tape and it’s a bung job and every first is hers to lord and she bought your Morrissey shirt from a jumble sale at a church, mumbling self-taught curses in deep slurs, a baby’s gurgle. And she said she was Lilith.