Whoring My Heart

And there you go again. You seem to have this vicious, vicious cycle of breaking my heart. If I asked you to stop, would you even know how? It's nothing but subconscious by now. And a few pitiful rhymes won't make you love me again, except that I can't seem to stop writing them for you. How pathetic am I? Off the richter scale, probably. But even an earthquake couldn't shake my feeling for you. Old news blares on the idiot box, and I'm still throwing up and throwing out last night's overindulgence. Maybe I should take up the corner by your house, 'cause I'm nothing more than a whore to you, anyway. You could drive by on the way to her house and use me (abuse me?) whenever you needed. Your needs are all that concern me, anyway. Screw me and mine. (Yes. Literally, too). Make sure you take that easy-tear package and discard it when you discard this easy-tear me. (Rip first, cry second). Sweet dreams are made of this, so will you dream of me next time you're sweet with her?