fuck off

the pain in my forehead seems defining... a reflection, if you will. if i focus, i can feel each throb of my heart pump blood to my brain. it hurts something ugly. a vein attempts to protrude through the skin. if i focus... on something else, anything else... distract myself, it's merely dulling. always there, however minuet. i can mask it with pills... drugs, alcohol, sex. it's still there. reminding me of things past... reminding me where i was, am, and will be going. for now, though... i'll spend endless amounts of effort destroying it. telling my headache to "fuck off". i don't need you except for to leave. i'm tortured enough inside my own thought. its presence is not appreciated. unwelcome. resented, even. i'm alive and writhing in pain at any given moment... so fuck off. quit lingering. loitering. lasting. fuck off already. i mean really. come back on a morning when i'm well equipped. not at my weakest when i'm naked. unarmed. you fucking sneaky bastard. fuck off. leave me in my wallowing. i'm sure to yell at you later. you know i'll visit this place again. i frequent your domain. i send myself there with each drip of liquor or wine... with each flirtation... with each stare i give. with each kiss i hand out. with each graze of skin. i'll be back... don't worry... just fuck off for now. please.