[untitled]

Being with you is like suicide. Except I'm not the one who's conducting the act; you're the one holding the knife. You keep driving it into my back.

 

If only........

 

            I had enough spine to end this.

 

But I can't help feeling optimistic.

Maybe we can see this through?

 

I am sympathetic to your needs,

although I can't remember a time

when you were there for me.

 

I am an example of weakened empathy.

You are...

the lie that I'll always believe.

We can't rely on promises anymore,

and we'll never be what we once were before.

 

And yet, we're mules and the idea is drilled into our heads:

"Maybe,

just maybe,

we'll see this through."