You, are my personal brand of nicotine.
A pernicious substance seeping through my veins,
spreading your noxious effect with lethargic precisions.
You, are the perfect subject for a story of a lifetime.
An incarcerating chemistry formed after a casual affair,
evolving to perverse fixation and interdependency.
You, are the worst kind of paramour.
Orchestrating intricate pillars of trust through unabashed honesty,
raising up my bar of expectations and setting up everyone else to fail.
You, are a russian roulette designed for my quietus.
A penitentiary of caging embrace and possessive kisses,
imprinting your brand of Bacchanalia with each pious ecstasy.
You, are my ephemeral reprieve and Tartarus pit.
À la mort.