Whenever my rotten heart is lured into believing she's met someone who could make her fall in the abyss with a pair of black wings in a bloody white dress and blood splattered all over my face...whenever that happens, she puts on a devilish grin and puts a coin in the jukebox.
Again. Number seven.

I hope I was that gifted I could turn my pain into something creative. A piece of art. Music maybe.
Instead, I ignore whatever is there otherwise I would just be miserable Anne Other.