I'd assume that someone like you
would never have to prove something wrong about themselves.
You turned into the person I never thought you'd become.
Disrespect, more than too much sex.
Getting high off your ass to fake a sense of happiness is what I call "laziness"
Pills and potions, now that's devotion, something I never got into.
Xans and tequila,
did I ever mean anything to ya?
Needing someone around just to satisfy your neediness is simply meaningless.
Love is love, until I'm ready to sweep you under the rug like a dead bug,
On your back, legs up.
Just like you probably are right now.
There was no future for us,
because one of us relied on lust.
And if I must, the lust that brewed inside your brain
saturated mine with excruciating pain.
I'm no dumbass, so please don't ask how I knew.
You moved on and now you're smoking more weed than Cheech and Chong on a good day.
Bowls, bongs, blunts and joints.
How's it like seeing the world through a fake sense of self?
Oh wait, it's not just because of the weed.
You hospitalized yourself, it didn't help.
If you were drug tested right this moment, things wouldn't be so well.
The outcome of pissing in a cup would end in either a proud attitude
or a wake up call.
I have nothing against weed, I smoke, but I'm not one to use it to cope.
Xanax is as far as I've gone,
regretting every moment of another withdrawal.
Your ability to move on so quickly almost killed the person all of your lust was devoted to.
It's inhuman.
Overdose, into comatose, there'll be no hope.
Don't touch the sunglasses I left at your house,
Or the sweater that for all I know,
is three feet in the dumpster.
It's either a heap of ash, or in a pile of trash.
The notes I wrote you serve as perfect kindling, mind you.
I found that out from the letters that you wrote to me.
Pyromaniac, you better bet your ass that I won't be the one to crack.
I'm heartless, regardless, but only towards the mess that you call yourself.
So take my things from off your shelf, burn my sweater to exhibit my personal hell.
Oh well, oh well, it sucks that I'm well.
I couldn't care less if you cracked under the pressure.
For reference, we fought once, which was all on me and misunderstanding.
You can't be.
How many guys have meant more than me?
How many guys have contracted your disease?
Oh please, don't act like I was the only one you loved.
Kiss me, kill me, hate me, never see the real me.
Would you have wanted to?
Could you have cared?
I faked it till I made it far away from you.
Superficial, artificial, run of the mill.
Saint
Then a sinner.
A stone cold killer.
