God, I hate you.
I hate how you deleted me only when you found someone else
and I hate how your friends say the same things about her.
I hate how you use the same goddamn places,
our memories, and our pick-up phrases,

like I was never really special at all.

I hated how he left me; I hated how she left me, too,
but you were worse. You let me leave and didn't even respond
when I said goodbye. I'm still grazing the sun on our backs
at the beach, and down Fifth Avenue as the train ran past us,
straight down the railroad tracks,

I'm still angry, and I'm still clenching my fists
ready to attack anyone who dares burst my bubble.
I can't miss you, 'cause I was never your home,
yet there's something calling -- more like, I wish you'd erupt
after stealing all the thunder I used to own.

Everybody on the street now -- they don't know.
They don't understand why I can't eat rolled-up raw fish
in rice and seaweed, and I'm stuck trying to explain
how my favorite food makes me sick. And now she,
the new one, rhymes with "lady", and also "Yeti",
what we call her sometimes for vengeance:

she gets all the fame and fortune and riding in rollercoasters
figuring out she wants to live in Montana, not North Philadelphia.

I don't know, it's not about confidence,
It's about thinking you were real when you said,
"I need to be on my own, for a while."
It's about how none of the truths you pulled out of me,
and none of the whispering, none of the singing
and chasing, running and literally,

literally anything
were ever from "deep inside" at all.

And that leaves me wondering,
maybe Waksberg was right, and there is no "deep inside".
I think our brains shed light on placebo effect, and the idea
of being smart keeps us going.

I think you were human,
you are human, and I mistook it as perfection,
and I want to think that maybe it just drove me insane.