You're like a 12-guage shotgun. and i'm close range, baby. i know your trigger finger's itchin, but hold off. i deserve more than a moment of your time. i'm more than a head on the wall of your trophy room. know me and love me before you dismiss me. i've outstretched my hand, waiting for your gentle grasp, only to have you take my fingers and close them into a fist. how many times can i endure this? inevitably my fragile heart shall burst fragmenting into pieces, one for each of you to pick up and steal. run away with portions of me. as time proceeds, it's becoming easier, this process of becoming a machine.