The Survivors

There is beauty in falling in love with people who have suffered as much as you have. People who look at your scar marks and can tell you what you have been through. But above all, people who are not full of themselves. People who have seen blood and know how it tastes like. The taste of metal coupled with melancholy. They are not judgmental piece of shit. They will call you up at 3 in the morning and laugh through the fucking tears. They don’t give fucking damn about health and mental wellbeing. Because they have seen the end of the world and have lived through the catastrophe. Don’t try to teach them your fuckall spirituality as they have tasted the fire of doomsday on their tongue and they are still here to tell their stories. They don’t need to read some fuckall guru’s books because their own life is the testimony of all things those bleed. Shut those fucking books of yours. Close that fucking superficial mind of yours. Take off your clothes. And let them get rid of theirs. Touch them where they have never been touched before. Touch their scar marks. Touch those spots that haven’t healed yet. Let them wince in pain. Let the tears roll down. Make love to that pain. Make them moan in ecstasy. Ejaculate in the tunnel whose walls were painted in pink by the God Itself. Harvest your seed. Then claim to be in love with those wild souls. Fuckers. Or just go home and suck on your security of fuckall values. Because fuck you, that's why.

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