I hope the next girl that you kiss has something terrible contagious on her lips.

This is my double entendre. A way of saying I both love and hate you, my head is hot and clouded, a lone ship caught in your reckless tempest (or am I the eye of the storm?). I am the way you slowly shut your eyes right before you fall asleep. I like the stories that slither out of your lips, escaping your grip and enticing me, an albatross hung swift around my neck. Do you ever think that there could be something left? (between) (us). Fuck this and you. This is my way of saying that you're the worst thing that ever happened to me, the plague that struck me heart and brought me to my knees. I want to be the next girl to kiss you, for I have something terribly contagious on my lips. It was once the way I said your name, but it has since changed to a series of tethered necks trying to fight back screams about you. Oh the lashes and the ways I'd hurt you, if only I knew how. I want to be the next girl that you kiss, for I want you to like me, somehow.