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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