(I) promised you I'd stop chasing thi(n)gs -
chasing ***** with ***
and chasing boys who'd n(e)ver satisfy.
I guess I kept chasing to see if you'd care,
how far you'd stretch, to se(e)
if you'd come back after you'd left.

It's my sixth shot tonight
and I can't be your friend.
I'm not sure how to (d)eal with missing you so much
that my brain's too foggy to make my morning tea.
Sometimes I stand in the kitchen and I cook breakfast for two
but I throw it all away because I don't know
what the hell I'm supposed to do in this God-forsaken house
without (y)ou.
  
So I keep kissing boys and
I keep writing with *** in my veins
instead of blood.
It's my eight sh(o)t tonight,
and I don't know how many boys I'll kiss before I forget the way
you said my name.
I don't want yo(u) anymore.

And you loved him so much you often forgot how to breathe,
One, two, three, exhale.
And you thought missing him at night made you think
of all the ways your insides can twist and scream and bleed.
And now you always start sentences with "and" because you're afraid of beginnings because beginnings have an end.

And you loved him so much, but
you walked in at 2:03 am,
you came home 30 minutes early
and his hands were in her hair
her lips were on his face
and he pushed her off, of course,
he didn't love her,
he loved you,
****, he ****** up he ****** up,
he's so sorry,
he promised he'd never hurt you, ****.

But it's 2:03 am
6 months later,
and you remember how to breathe
and his eyes only show you all the ways a heart can break
and he calls you at 2:03 am
he ****** up, he's so ******* sorry,
and you know, he'll never **** up again,
it was just ***, ******* ***.

And you miss him,
and his arms are empty but you want them anyway.

I think it hurts at night
when you're wearing nothing but a shirt
and his ghost slips
around your waist.

I'm writing tonight because I'm not quite sure
what else to do with my hands. Usually you would
hold them, but I left six months ago and I think they've
been cold and dry ever since. I know you're doing okay,
but the snow is almost gone and I think you can come
home. It's so cold outside and I know your arms are
around her waist and your face is in her hair, but I don't
think she loves you like I do.

My doctor told me today,
after the seventh blood test,
and the eighth psych screening,
that she didn't know if I'd ever get better.

I nodded
because I knew this.
Of course, I knew this.
She had tears in her eyes though
and her pupils screamed at me,
"You're too young to be this sick."
I know.

She told me I have to keep trying,
that my brain might heal someday soon.
It's not you, love - you're fine, it's just
your head is so, so sick, my dear,
and I'm so, so sorry.

The cave collapsed.
Jagged rocks poking holes through my windpipe.
And I can't breathe anything but your face,
and you're too weak to save me.
I need You
and I swear I'll never choose him again,
make him stay away from me
and let me out of here;
he's haunted for a reason.

He's too weak,
too weak to heave
the rocks off of my chest.
That's fine,
I spend all of my time
wishing I couldn't breathe anyway.
I need You.