Bang. Bang. The sound of life went ‘Bang Bang’ in my head. My mouth lobs out the words at lightning speed. Those words are meant to fucking hurt. And they ricochet like scattershot off your armor, landing a graze wound in your knee, but bursting through my spine, up my brain. Explosive in my brain, those words bounce like miniature, meteoric assassins, reducing me to mush. I’m not saying you’re dead; but you damn well feel it. Suddenly, in the span of a conversation, you’ve gone from lovers, to them limping away as you lie there, floored, collapsed onto your knees, some lobotomized version of yourself. And as they walk away, and as you’re mumbling some pleading nonsense, they know there’s no taking your words back, the exit wound in the middle of your forehead saw to that.
Words.fucking.matter. But Lykke Li, I Never Learn.