I remember;;
it's getting hazier, the longer I linger
on false truths you fed me through a tube.
I wont lie, each fibre of my being
wants to break you into a million little pieces--
you told me that my eyes were pretty,
that you'd never leave me
& that anything short of eternity would ensnare you.
I know I made the mistake,
in believing beautiful whispered words,
tightly wrapped around your legs.
Our lips touched, but mostly our hearts
that's how I liked to see the stars, just semi-transparent,
like the bathroom window, just a little modesty
[you helped me get rid of any that I had kept within me.]
I can barely remember if you were kind,
or if I convinced myself you were horribe all along
to save myself the heartache [what's the point, I already am];
I'd do anything to not have to admit my heart still pines for you sometimes
& when you think of somebody else, it shatters me--
I should hate you as much as I hate violent crime.
But hatred could never be harnested,
when my eyes still trickle with tribute tears--
remembering something that could've been,
might've been and possibly was, but you were afraid
but so was I, in many ways.
I knew you were bad;
that shifty smile and vile words,
that ripped apart my soul but I just shrugged
letting each little leech feed on me a little more,
until I finally realised you'd condemned me to die.
"I hate him more than heroin haunted eyes
& the tick-tock-tactless tendies of a bomber, as he condems himself to die."
Then I turn away & whisper the truth,
that no matter how much I don't like you--
hatred is too far off a word to bring myself to.
This isn't just a melody of misfortune, babe--
I know that these words I write on heartstrings mean nothing to you
& you can just lay down and smile, taunting my sincerity
like it was fun to play games with a pouring soul, but you never know
that just because hatred doesn't poor through my veins,
doesn't mean the viscious words you said don't mean to vengence.
If you didn't stop blaming everyone else, or what happened
when you were younger; meningitis, uncle touched you--
I couldn't possibly understand, but it doesn't mean I swipe under the rug,
all the dirty little things you've done.
Tell me you'll kill yourself--you do try it,
people have seen the scars on your arms & legs;
attention, perhaps--you hate yourself & everyone else,
there's nothing more I can do or say
you've condemned yourself to live this way
in a conflicting reality of messed up pasts,
perishing present & forboding future--
& only you can change the latter and penultimate,
I'm no longer your little lost lover, trying to save you from yourself.
Because I refuse to turn out like you, I couldn't live with myself.
and it seems you think the same too.
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