[Nothing to be done. And nothing should be done.]
You should be in my space. You should be in my life.
You should be in my space. You should be in my life.
You could be in my space.
Engulfed now in the pool of self-pity and self-destruction. I am eating, yes -- hating every bite, but eating just the same. This I anticipate will change in frequency when I work myself into the frenzy. The cyclone is but beginning to pick up speed and strength. I used to walk five hours a day. I used to miss him one minute a day. Now there is a gaping hole in my life, a gaping hole shaped like him, only I do not know him, not at all. Not anymore. I cleaned my apartment to such an extent that there is very little evidence of his existence. Yes he once nearly lived here, slept and breathed and ate and drank here, kept me company while I tuned him and everything real out and sunk further and further into those raging waters. Fuck you.
This fucking song makes me weep. A pathetic creature, me. Reduced to tears and false hopes, to a heart that beats with receding vigor and conviction as my eyes scan your critical words. They melt on my skin and leave red welts. I bite my lip and fight for sanity. Fighting harder than I should have to. Walk five hours a day? Why certainly--and why not? Do not do the same thing that I do and think it is okay. See, that is the kind of twisted distortion clouding my rationale. I am the twit here and still I grow angry when he pulls the same shit I've pulled a dozen times.
Love should keep her distance. In this wasteland she'd quickly suffocate. Bad air, here, for lungs now accustomed to coughing, gasping, wheezing for dear life.
Dear life my ass.
You should be in my space. You should be in my life.
You could be in my space.
Engulfed now in the pool of self-pity and self-destruction. I am eating, yes -- hating every bite, but eating just the same. This I anticipate will change in frequency when I work myself into the frenzy. The cyclone is but beginning to pick up speed and strength. I used to walk five hours a day. I used to miss him one minute a day. Now there is a gaping hole in my life, a gaping hole shaped like him, only I do not know him, not at all. Not anymore. I cleaned my apartment to such an extent that there is very little evidence of his existence. Yes he once nearly lived here, slept and breathed and ate and drank here, kept me company while I tuned him and everything real out and sunk further and further into those raging waters. Fuck you.
This fucking song makes me weep. A pathetic creature, me. Reduced to tears and false hopes, to a heart that beats with receding vigor and conviction as my eyes scan your critical words. They melt on my skin and leave red welts. I bite my lip and fight for sanity. Fighting harder than I should have to. Walk five hours a day? Why certainly--and why not? Do not do the same thing that I do and think it is okay. See, that is the kind of twisted distortion clouding my rationale. I am the twit here and still I grow angry when he pulls the same shit I've pulled a dozen times.
Love should keep her distance. In this wasteland she'd quickly suffocate. Bad air, here, for lungs now accustomed to coughing, gasping, wheezing for dear life.
Dear life my ass.