Songs I Write | VIII

Epiphanies

I still speak highly of you to my mother and close friends
While you bitch about me with yours
You try your best to do less than you promise
While I settle for this, only wishing for more

But I can't hate you, I can't run
I can't blame you for what is done
My ruined epiphanies, our tragedy
You are everything to me

I still keep old Polaroids from Christmas dinners and Halloween
While you erase our affair in every capacity
You try your best to manifest a violence-less ending
But all you do is make me the fool with handfuls of stitches needing stitching

But I can't hate you, I can't run
I can't blame you for what we've done
My ruined epiphanies, our tragedy
You are everything to me

I still read through oblivious letters betwixt two fantasists who should've known better
I still feel what you claim to have not for longer than long enough
I disagree that we shouldn't see it to the end, begging for slightest chances of pretend
I'd let you fool me over and fool me again, wool over my eyes, I'd suffocate in it

After all this time, I'd have thought you'd understand how much I could love a man
And how authentically I lose sense of sanity, what should I do when my world feels threatened?
You treat it all like it was a haze, an impossible legend
I guess I'm starting to as well but even then

I can't hate you, I can't run
I can't blame you for fucking up
My ruined epiphanies, our tragedy
That you are everything to me