She's crying to me down the phone
and all I can think is
how ****** it all is. How sick,
twisted and manipulated it all is.
Love is a ******* gift,
but it's a trick.
A menacing, broken, soft-spoken,
seductive *****,
that strikes up against your ribs,
just a match that caught flame.

How dare you ask to see me again
when you knew how much I loved you.

How dare you try and spin me into your web again.
Don't you know that I've become
so much better than you?

Then why does it feel like I'm
glueing together
old bits of rope and string,
tying together bits of old things
that everyone else has left for dead?

Isn't it worth fighting for?
Isn't love worth fighting for?
Why do I have to explain this to everyone I meet?

Every half-finished painting, song or poem—
they don't make masterpieces
if you take them all home, stitch them together and leave them to grow.
Just leave them alone.

I'm cold to the bone. In the twilight
I'm empty,
my heart turns to stone.

I watch all these sunsets turn red to navy
and I numb it with ***** because I can't handle the happiness.
You were my baby but baby you left me.

You were my baby but baby you left me.