Because nobody like to sleep with guilty, alone on a king-sized bed.
Well, yes, I try to avoid that but no, I sleep with guilty.
Guilty isn't a nice person, he's cruelly gentle because he
does the wrong things yet feel bad about it afterwards
but the person he had hurt already given up on finding light in her
solemn, lonely, blackish little world so she jumped.
Guilty complains to me every night, sounding terrible all the time
in my head. And he doesn't stop the pain, he doesn't
even try to stop talking so much so that he could try to do something
about what he has done.
"Oh look, it's that girl again," we whispered behind her back
and I feigned annoyance to her appearance, but you know, we were
good friends in the past and we ate lunch together on an autumn day.
They wouldn't accept me if I didn't say such things;
they're only letting me in because I told them I hated her as well.
My jet-black eyes reveals the truth, but they never look me in the eye
so all is well, all is well.
But Guilty complains to me every night, sounding terrible all the time.