Like someone’s drained the last bit of emotion from the well in my chest and I don’t know why, but for some reason I’m feeling hurt that you’re kicking me to the sidelines,
even though…
I told you it was fine…
My chest feels tighter than a ******* corset, but I’m not complaining because I’m worried that if I do, you’ll just redirect that anger and frustration of yours right back at me and it’ll only get worse from here on out.
But am I just supposed to go against my nature and bottle these feelings up, concentrating them into the very poison falling from my lips, until we both drink it,
or maybe I just drink it,
and fall apart even more than I already have…
Blue lips, pale skin, and a hand me down noose, whose lips poisoned whose, or are we just drowning in the doubts?
Your lips, your skin, and a persistent lack of faith, my lips poisoned yours, and I think it’s time to escape…