Let's go to something basic. Love. Actually, post-love.
You told me once about how you liked me before, when I didn't cry all the time. You said that I fussed over things so I stopped, kept to myself. Then you told me that I don't share what's bothering me. Should I hold it in or should I let it out?
You told me that I couldn't handle the disaster brewing between us, but then why were you the one to let go first and run away? You scared piece of shit. Maybe that was the time when you fell in my eyes for the first time. All those excuses and the lies to make yourself feel like a better person. News flash, you're not better than any of them.
You told me you wanted to be my friend. So I saw you as nothing else, nothing. Then you go around and talk to me, about me, about how you've entrapped the idea of me in the narrow hell you've made for yourself where I am nothing but the satan. You talk about me like I'm a monster you escaped from. Maybe I should have been. Maybe I shouldn't have given it my all.
Our friends tell us how we're made for each other. I used to believe it at first, thought you did too. Now it just seems stupid. You're too calm to handle a storm and you can't name me anything but a hurricane. Everything that happened seems too fake and too hazy and too short and too distant that I'm overwhelmed with feelings, the feelings of a homeless. And you remind me of my old apartment building with ebbed and flowed memoirs like a photo stuck between the dusty old sheets, you were the type of home that could even scatter apart from the tremors of dancing feet upstairs. I should have know you couldn't survive an earthquake.
Who'd have thought? I could get nostalgic for disasters.
Who'd have known? Nostalgia could turn into hatred.
Maybe, I shouldn't have protected you from my monster. I should have let it have you till you drained.
Maybe.
You told me once about how you liked me before, when I didn't cry all the time. You said that I fussed over things so I stopped, kept to myself. Then you told me that I don't share what's bothering me. Should I hold it in or should I let it out?
You told me that I couldn't handle the disaster brewing between us, but then why were you the one to let go first and run away? You scared piece of shit. Maybe that was the time when you fell in my eyes for the first time. All those excuses and the lies to make yourself feel like a better person. News flash, you're not better than any of them.
You told me you wanted to be my friend. So I saw you as nothing else, nothing. Then you go around and talk to me, about me, about how you've entrapped the idea of me in the narrow hell you've made for yourself where I am nothing but the satan. You talk about me like I'm a monster you escaped from. Maybe I should have been. Maybe I shouldn't have given it my all.
Our friends tell us how we're made for each other. I used to believe it at first, thought you did too. Now it just seems stupid. You're too calm to handle a storm and you can't name me anything but a hurricane. Everything that happened seems too fake and too hazy and too short and too distant that I'm overwhelmed with feelings, the feelings of a homeless. And you remind me of my old apartment building with ebbed and flowed memoirs like a photo stuck between the dusty old sheets, you were the type of home that could even scatter apart from the tremors of dancing feet upstairs. I should have know you couldn't survive an earthquake.
Who'd have thought? I could get nostalgic for disasters.
Who'd have known? Nostalgia could turn into hatred.
Maybe, I shouldn't have protected you from my monster. I should have let it have you till you drained.
Maybe.
If you come back, maybe I'll run back to you.
If you come back, maybe I'll stab you and watch you bleed life as the light ones out from your eyes.
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