The taste of disgust that gathers on my tongue as you spew your melodrama over your rather once kissable lips. The irony of your existence, if laced with actual iron would do me some good. I am lacking the vitamin but you're just a virus. You want to corrupt me. It's flattering in a poisonous way that you even try. You are intriguing, I admit, but now the palpable dirt is just a grime on a window I would rather not look out of. The chaos you perspire is undesirable even in the era of bad boys when everything bad is tempting and everything tempting gets tempted with just much admiration and filth as crime.