Lois Lane, Reporter by Kate Beaton
(Source: popgoesthereader, via )
I still taste you and thus reserve my right to hate you,
And all this empty space that you create does nothing for my flawless sense of style.
Carry this burden now until the moment of your last breath.
Old Mary, full of grease,
Your heart stops within you.
Scary are the fruits of your tomb,
and harsh are the terms of your sentence.