never break a writer's heart.

Never break a writer's heart.

Never break her, never break him,

never chip important pieces from their morning-after shoulders.

Never sink knives into their sweet skin,

or their sour skin,

or their soft-as-silk skin,

they know how to turn blood into beauty.

And they'll bleed you out just to prove it.

They'll bleed you dry with your own sharp tongue,

they'll grip your lungs with tomorrow's tears.

They'll suffocate you with their should-have's,

pull you from your High and Mighty to cut you down

piece by piece

word by word

letter by letter.

They use the alphabet to cut across your palms,

drawing atmospheres in your dazed eyes,

staining you with a color that can't be cleansed,

so people know the danger in good hair and a wicked smile.

There's 70 grams of danger in good hair

and 200 in that wicked smile.

But I don't need to tell you about it.

Never break a writer's heart.

She'll strain and she'll stain you,

until your nobody's color

and nobody's mistake.

And then she'll fall for you all over again.

Like clockwork.