If you cannot see my value, by all means, sir,
The exit is just to the left, an arm’s length past those skank bitches in the back row.
Ah goddam, I traded Fuckboys for Tin Man.
Petrified of codependency, I run from anything so much as static cling.
Tin Man can’t reject me
Tin Man doesn’t know me
Tin Man doesn’t care about what’s on the inside.
Just hold his oil can, be sure he’s nice and shiny.
He cannot love me then take it back
He never loved me to begin with.
It sounds like it would be perfect for me, but alas. Love, for me, could never be that easy.
Tin Man gives just enough to make you believe there is something ticking inside.
You strain, and stretch, and bend yourself into origami just to get close enough to cup your ear to his chest.
You lean in so far; you fall flat on your face.
He can’t help you up, he’s rusted. He can’t bend at all.
What a fucking disaster.
Worse still, there’s oil spilled everywhere and now someone better call the EPA.
This isn’t just a misunderstanding, the entire ground beneath me is tainted.
Fuck.
But the alternative, the other option…the risks outweigh the rewards by metric tons and I don’t even understand the goddamned metric system.
Fuck you, Europe.
In for a penny, in for a pound. How much is a fucking pound?
More than this. Much more than this.
This is hollow.
This is rusted tin.
Loved this.
Thank you for being you, sis ❤️