He’d kill himself, if she left.
She left.
He cried; yelled; screamed.
A letter to his brother, trying to explain.
Soon, his hands flew over the keyboard.
He smiled.
Felt lighter; relief.
Fuck her, he thought.
Two days later he finished.
Don’t Kill Yourself, sold 10,000,000 copies.
He had fame, money, and bunches of babes.
