I've held in my hands, my intestines, for ten years. Presenting the wounds, the knots, the self repairs. (and you) Even in my dreams you're [bad word] ugly. You soaked them in alcohol, an anesthetic disguised, before the match. I'm not one for revenge, (eye for and eye is a lie for lie to yourself) but the last time we [bad word] I imagined you gutted. There was no blood. I never saw you bleed. Alas, without your disgusting [bad word] hollow self, I wouldn't have taken several planes, praying for [bad word]  landing on an undiscovered island of painless fire and tangible dreams, surrounded by the tears of Azlan. So, I thank you. So, I brand myself: Regret's for the birds.