I HATE PETER WHO TOLD ME THERE WAS NO SPARK

Fuck you Peter, you fucking lied to me.

You said there was no spark. You climbed on top of me, you ground your crotch all over me, you slept in my bed, and told me there was no spark.

You stood in my kitchen, wrapped your arms around me, asked me how I could smell so good, then told me there was no spark.

You kissed and kissed and kissed me, told me how soft my lips were, and told me there was no spark.

Fuck you. Fuck fuck you. How fucking stupid are you? What would be a fucking spark to you? If you moaned at my nibbling on your neck? Oh wait, I remember that. How about if you put your hands in my pants? Would that be fucking sparks? Oh wait, that happened too.

What the fuck would have had to happen for there to be sparks?

No Peter, what you're fucking scared of is me. Passionate, chaotic, happy, searching, opinionated, attentive, loving me. You know what the fuck I represent? You know what the fuck I am?

Life.

So fuck you. I'm going to go be alive, and you can go crawl back in your shell and wait for your spark. If it ever comes to you.

I hope you get burned.