Your smell still haunts my room,
it fills my nose when I least expect.
And you're all dressed up and fine,
and I'm a nervous fucking wreck.
And it's not even jealousy;
I just miss you and me.
I don't want you to be mine,
I want everything to be ours.
And you'll find someone with the common interests
you first found so interesting about me.
And there's nothing I can fucking do about it.
Every day I wake up sad
that I didn't die in my sleep,
and every bed's the loneliest place in the world
with anybody but you next to me.
I destroyed every single reminder of you,
I punched the wall (roof) until I bled.
But I couldn't stop thinking,
so I drank until I slept.
And "I Miss You" never sounded as good
as it did in your bedroom in 2010;
and I'd kill to feel that hard for something again.
I don't know anything about anything anymore.
Who's keeping score?
It's hard to count when you're seeing double.
Nothing's ever gonna be the same
in this fucked up continuity,
so why, oh why would I keep going?
Should I keep going?
Why'd I have to go and fuck it up?
I had it all and still it wasn't enough.
Now I'm left here to sit and rot
and it's exactly what I deserve.
I've been reading through old notebooks every day,
I fucking hate the author for not being able to see.
I wish I could go back in time
and beat that stupid fucking kid to death.