What hurts the most is the pull on the heart.
The direct result of realizing you gave away the best you had only to have has it tossed aside and the sting of feeling like you've been cheated. Its in these thoughts where the chest deflating, shoulder sloping defeat weeps my head.
Somewhere around the age of 18 we begin our descent. Forward to death.
Life is a machine. Secretly masterminded by sinister mad scientists who have been at the helm for centuries running us in to the ground.
From lies to cancer to noise to love to loss to disappointment to pollution to gravity to death.
Every single thing given to us is well-timed and executed and in the end, will all be taken away. And like a block of wood, we are widdled down, day after day to eventually become nothing more than a pile of splinters that, if we were lucky, once resembled a solid fucking person. The war machine of death, destruction and disappointment runs its course over mind, body and soul.
What keeps us alive robs us of our life.
Genius marketing plans set up by the public relations team over at 'We've Got You By The Balls, Inc.'
Food for nourishment clogs out arteries.
Our drink shrivels our liver.
The air we breathe burns our lungs.
The sun we bask in leathers our skin.
What keeps our feet on the ground slowly pulls at our face, stomach and breasts.
The genes that make us attractive will betray us with premature hair loss, breast cancer and heart disease.
The overpriced clothes we wear merely perpetuate stereotypes and shallow image conflicts.
The sex we think we share for love rarely is.
The love we give unconditionally is historically unrequited.
The stances we take leave us alone and ridiculed.
And the hearts we hurl out come back marked as damaged goods with 'return to sender' stamped in black and blue.

So do we bow our heads and accept our fate?
You.
Me.
Your mom.
Your boyfriend.
Your girlfriend.
One day.
We will all be lying in a coffin.
Dead.
Dead.

"You ever get the feeling you've been cheated?"
Everyday.

But the one thing that the professors and scientists didn't count on...one thing they could never counter because THEY don't and won't and can't understand is The Fuck You.
The Fuck You is what drives you to write that "here's my heart, don't fuck it up" letter to that one person, despite what you know.
Despite what's happened in the past.
Despite all good judgment.
Despite you knowing most people in this world aren't worthy of your love. Your time. Your respect.
You give.
Because its your blazing middle finger to the men running that machine.
The Fuck You is your 'I will not be taken alive' spirit.
The Fuck You is 'if I'm going down, I'm going down swinging'.
The Fuck You is God putting his foot in your ass and whispering in your ear, "Stop being such a pussy and get in the fucking game."
Because its all a fucking game and we either play it or get played BY it.

In spite of what I know.
In spite of history.
In spite of this bruised and tarnished and rusted heart.
In spite of my better judgment.

I will keep trying.
I will keep loving.
And I will keep a candle in the window for you.
And I will keep sending out this disregarded old package no matter how many times it comes back fucked up.

Because I have 3 things for the machine.
Two swear fingers and a fucking smile.