There are a thousand things I want to scream at you
make you understand the pain you put me through:
The bullet in my head and
the crevice in my heart.
You said you loved me,
but, as I began to crumble to a pathetic dust
you mumbled something about an emergency
Of all the souls I thought would leave,
you were the last.
You always wanted to be the first,
and I suppose I thought that the throwing of the stone
would be the exception.
And now I pass you in the hallway.
Your eyes scan over me,
searching for a face in the crowd where it once saw mine.
And I hate you for it.
I hate how you gave up on me,
deciding I was a lost cause out of the fucking blue
when I was three weeks clean to keep you
a part of my life.
And I suppose you were right. I'm a goner.