I wasted so much of my time,
Listening to things you liked,
And looking at things you sent me,
And doing all this other shit,
When you wouldn't even lift
A finger for me.
I wasted my goddamn paper on you.
Pages and pages,
and all my words to create things that weren't even happy.
I should've taken all the signs
That all those words I wasted on you said,
Because they knew more than I did at that time.
And maybe if I listened a little sooner,
I wouldn't still have to be wasting words on you right now.
And you wouldn't be clouding my mind.
You wouldn't even speak a word to me.
And I spent all this time writing about you.
I tried to fucking speak to you,
But you just wouldn't invest in all the conversation starters,
That are now just frayed string,
Ruining itself even today.
And you can't say I didn't try,
When I spent most of my days,
In my room feeling like my flesh was being torn off my bones in a violent storm of,
Should I talk to you?
Should I ask you?
When you still wouldn't say a single thing to me.
Should I have even stressed about all the times I regretted not talking to you?
Because every single damn time I did,
I was left in the same puddle of vomit and blood after you left to soon.
And days before you would brag to me about how late you would stay, on your own time.
Without me.
Every time you left, it was when there was substance,
Something I could take from this.
Look, another fucking frayed string.
You poor unfortunate thing.
I was so worried I would break you.
I should've listened
to what the pages of words I wasted on you said,
Because they knew more than I did at that time.
And I'd finally see,
That this entire time,
You were slowly breaking me.
And maybe if I listened a little sooner,
I wouldn't have wasted these words I just wrote on
you.
