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So, I can rite no more emails 2 U,
U want pees and qwuiet.

I cannot has talks with U
wiffout U tellin me I is an idiot.

I wants it no more, this hoppin
up & down on the wound U so

like doin; I knows I is an idiot.
“It’s not U, it’s me,” I wud say,

if we could talk, if I hads voise,
if U had ears and if U cared.

Then we wud swim deeper into
cirlkes of slow destrukshun, so:

no point in talksing, sendin emails
2 her highness. I has had enuff

of hurts. She has had enuff of disturbs. So.
We shud findes goodness elsewheres.

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