Lick the me off your finger, like it's an appetizer at a feast you never wanted an invitation to. But hey, here we are, in the wreckage of wrongs, my sins spread out on satin sheets like a buffet, smorgasbord of regret. You might find my malice between the crumbs of kindness, or is that just a garnish? Wade through the soup of sorrow, mop it up, saturate the sheets, til they weigh heavy— two tons of all my not-so-greatest hits. "How'd we get here?" you ask between mouthfuls of bad decisions. A rock-and-a-hard-place dance? Nah, call it two left feet tripping down Memory Lane— check out the potholes of could've, should've, never would. Finger lickin' good, isn't it? My chaos in a condiments bottle, blending sweet nothings with sour everythings, like a soda fountain, where all flavors fizz, and the taste just... lingers. So roll around, get comfortable in this awkward mess, our love story's sludge, til the tears and laughter sew scars together with fibers of twine-hearted lies. Underneath, it's just a skeleton of us propped up on a bed we keep making with no intention of lying in it, yet can't seem to leave. Taste that irony? It's dark chocolate overdosed on reality, dipped in sarcasm, served on a silver platter etched with, "We could've been." But instead we feast on what we actually are. Bon Appétit, my love.