The part of me that knows what he's doing is hardly ever there.
Only showing up after mistakes are made.
Saying **** like: "Whatever. What do you care?"
*******, me. **** me, I swear.
You just hang back and pass judgement.
It's not fair.

You should be here helping to deal with these things,
instead of leaving me all alone.
If only you could understand.
You never will.
You live in objective, third-person, meta neverland.

It must be convenient not to feel anything,
but I resent the emptiness.
Forgive me for trying to fill that void with something.
I'm sorry if that makes us enemies.
For the record, I've tried everything to make it easy.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always condescending.
He thinks my life's a joke,
he thinks that I'm pretending.
I say "**** that" and do what I want.
Even mistakes can have a positive way of working themselves out -
With or without your help.

I know that I can count on your abandon.
You only show up when I'm all put out.
To carry me through the ******* -
I suppose I ought to be thankful for it.

You'd **** well better,
you melodramatic fool.
Everything I do is for you.
It kills me to see you waste it on such senseless endeavors.
What are you?
Some sort of emo Dr. Seuss?
Nobody cares.
You use writing as a way of escape.
We've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow (because of you, thanks).
I wish you wouldn't tie me to your leg whenever you drown yourself in   sorrow.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always ******* things up,
but I'll bet he'd say the same about me.
God forbid we work together
to find some sort of harmony.