It's 7 AM and I'm watching the birth of another day to be wasted.

I realized recently that the reason I'm killing myself one drag at at a time

Is because I've built these walls around myself so high

I've put Pink himself to shame.

Surrounded by memories,

Encased by nostalgia,

And breathing deep the painful,

Over-dramatic

And unnecessary irony.

What can I say,

Sometimes I'm just a masochist.

It's been two years now since January,

Been even longer since I knew who I still was,

To a time before your name meant hours of reflection,

Before connotations were added to words meant to be innocent,

Meant to be meaningless.

Now,

It seems there's too much meaning,

Too much behind everything,

Lying beside a whole lot of nothing.

So, what should I be feeling?

Oh wise one,

My world-weary drama queen?

Should I feel guilt, for throwing you back to the world?

For condemning you to a fate you grabbed with both hands,

For finally spitting in your face?

Should I still hate you,

Every night,

For those nights?

For giving me hopes just to shit on them?

Should I laugh,

Knowing that you're somewhere killing yourself

Over me?

Over us?

Over nothing?

You didn't answer me then,

And you certainly won't answer me now.

You're too in love with the mystery,

With the drama,

With the bullshit.

And darling, that's all you are and ever have been.

Grade A,

Quality,

Beautiful

Bullshit.