You're Sick

You were so good and you were so bad. You had bad boy written all over you, but you said that you weren't like that. You said looks were deceiving. But I let myself corrupt you, just because I could.

I asked you how you liked it and you said you didn't like it at all. I asked what you smoked and you said you didn't. I asked if you wanted a drink and you said we were underage. I asked why you wouldn't give in, and you said you weren't a stereotype. I was a stereotype.

I love you.

My lips crushed your when we kissed. Kissing you hurt me. My touch burned your skin and your tongue tasted sweet. Like candy.

I wanted to do something bad. You didn't, but I could make you do anything. I asked him if he would be my Clyde and I could be his Bonnie. He asked why I wanted to be something I wasn't. I asked him the same.

But You're Sick.

I wanted you on my skin. So I tattooed your heart on my brain, and you lips on my thighs. Your blood was in my throat and your breath was in my veins. Your bile was in my brain, sloshing around and destroying the past.

So Sick.

I gave you a needle and you no longer hesitated. You shoved it in your veins and it didn't cause you any pain. You would laugh. I would scream.

You were a monster.

It felt good when we didn't care. It was raw and we never erased are mistakes. We never apologized and we never let go because we were never really attached. But we were. You were attached to my heart.

I tried not to cry when you said you weren't coming back. But I still did. You didn't comfort me. You smelled like tobacco. You didn't taste like candy anymore. Just whiskey. And it was my fault.

You're sick.