Don’t date a girl who writes.

Our passion will not keep you alive. It will suck you dry.

We will chew you up, spit you out, and use your blood as ink.

We will swallow you whole and taste your soul just so we can have something to write about. Like a madame to her brothel we will sell your love for likes, for shares, for page views, and commission; and we do so without shame.

I know you think it’s romantic, but trust me –

The one time you unconsciously smiled at your ex will become a two-page essay about how the Big Bad Wolf was so insensitive towards little Red Riding Hood’s plight.

The day you forget to do the dishes again will become a metaphor for how you only like to touch dirty things, like us.

The way you replied to our text message a minute longer than usual will become a poem about how your hands dug a hole in our chests to squeeze our black-stained lungs.

Are you ready to be the hero? Or the villain? No? Then unhinge your limbs from our limbs. These typewriter lips are forbidden fruit.

Don’t mess with us. Don’t break our hearts.  Save yourself the trouble.

Don’t date a girl who writes.