You can know that a thing is doomed either way,
you can know that you'll eventually end up right back here,
so intellectually, you know it's all a wash--
and yet you'll still break down over it,
over its absence, its non-existence, its abortive state.
Still you'll break down like the little bitch you are,
visions of weaponry and knots, familiar phantoms of the Never Will.
Crying like a bitch,
like a little fucking bitch.