i was the noose around your neck
the lock and key that closed the door

Nostalgia applies to
you/me love triangles.
Blooming amongst
statutory rape actions
that we chanced anyways.
Two months means
the law can fuck off
when Dear God I Love You
comes into play.

The epic disaster began,
mitigating circumstances
where charcoal tulips scatter:
falling out of the eggshells
I wasn't meant to break.
Saying words we don't say
loses people we don't want.

Years mean I don't care
for random glances
that bring back memories.
That last time, even when
you said you loved me,
I threw fuck you glasses in
a black kettle bar.
Shoved out into the gutter:
you left and I stayed
with my superior mindset,
as a cold pillow against
the bastard of a night
you created.

Lost love doesn't count
until you're gone because
we say sorry like
it's going out of fashion
but six feet deep and
two weeks dead
means I can't change.
Not anymore
and not for you.

A/N: It's personal and shitty thus don't fucking ask.