Maybe I like being abused.
Maybe I like being in the dark vacuum of your pain.
Maybe I don’t feel loved unless I’m being used.
Maybe I like trying to balance on the turning tables of your deception.
Maybe I like the taste of poison…
The way it burns and the slow death shows no compassion.
I’ve tried to fight fire with fire.
Fight your fire with ice.
But I get left because you’re always right.
But I think I might like the ride.
I tell myself being poisoned feels alright.
It’s better than feeling nothing at all.
Why do I need good days and me time?
To be content and sit home and write.
These rhymes about love and passion
Mean nothing if I’m alone every night.
When did I become so weak?
It’s a perpetual cycle that doesn’t seem to end.
I wish I could press restart and try again.