That one... she's a waste of ink

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Get angry? Get sad? Throw a fit? Slice yourself up? Mope in solitary confinement? Do absolutely nothing at all? Show feelings? Hide them? How do we show them? How do we hide them? How well do we do either? Misery. Purest. Agonizing. Frustration at the root. Feet swinging left to right, right to left. Savages, strumpets, and whippings. When you said you'd leave me, did you mean you'd leave me? Profanity usually. Fuck her. The fuck list. Rambling. Bumbling. Disappointments. Second guessing. Failed self-reassurances. More profanity. Despair and regret. Pain. It becomes not only a question of what should we do, but what should we have done? Even decisions gone still mercilessly haunt us.