There comes a point, inevitably, where everything becomes pointless.
Where nothing is relevant,
And nothing is working right.
I think I'm a little slow on the uptake.
While trying to find a job to support my sorry ass, you come to mind, in your constant achievements and flag-waving self fanaticism. I went to the basement yesterday because I needed my fix, and I swear I smelled you there. Your drumsticks are all over in broken peices, and I almost had to laugh at the fucking irony there. Summer's coming and your sweat is ground into those walls, I worry if they'll sweat it back out and I'll go insane, breathing it in all over again.
And it's not like I haven't tried,
Or maybe I've tried to hard.
You're not around to tell me what to do anymore, so I get confused sometimes.
Oh, if only you'd been strong enough
To really make me a victim.
That could've fueled your angst for years,
Could've given you a misery-boner for decades to come.
I find it sad that everytime I open up these files, regardless of the time or situation, your face comes crawling back into my memory and fucks it all up. Each time I light a cigarette, I remember how you could never pack yours right, how many times you wasted them and how many times I laughed at it. I remember us huddled close in tragedy, my drunk mouth on your sleeping neck, and wishing to a godless world that I'd just grow a pair already. Well, those days are over, but the confusion still lies. Those days are over, but the warring in my mind isn't, hate turning to regret turning to love turning to something different entirely. Why don't you just come back and tell me who I am?
Because now, I'm not so sure...
If I even was in the first place.
I've got to hand it to you,
You're amazing at this.
Fucking with peoples' heads.
You're a goddamn professional.
I still have your scars, too. I'm not sure why, but I can't bear to let go of that last little bit of you...your scars, some broken drumsticks, and a single picture of you, just to drive those nails a little deeper. That stupid grin on your face, misery and chaos in those lovely eyes, and everything else I grew to hate about you. How fitting that such a pretty face would have such a horrible mind to go along with it, that such cruel eyes would be given to a charlatan. Aren't you the lucky one?
I still dream of you, only the dreams are different. In these dreams, we're playing role reversal, and you're on the bottom this time. In these dreams, you're in peices, and it's wonderful. My mind races with all the possibilities in a strong young man, and I find none of them would please you much. These days, my thoughts are filled with a thousand ways to torment you, to make your outsides match your insides, and I suppose, in the end, to really just make you scream. And lets be honest, you do look lovely with tears in those eyes.