You walk on tears
like they're made of kitchen floor tiles
You're not Jesus
You can't pull that **** off
You're the protagonist
of a story that makes you out to be hero
by filling the bed in my heart with onyx secondhand exhaust
(it still smells like you)
for my own good
Hoping my life is meaningless
forcing me to hate you and hate myself
for my own good
You're not Edward Cullen
You can't pull that **** off
I hope you still feel almighty and hot
when you realize how honest I was.
In the end all I see is hate
and self-loathing
and kitchen tiles stained with tear streaks