Maybe the problem is me.
We both know what’s really true,
I’m not good with honesty.

I was never sure about the things you
wanted me to believe in. And before I knew
what we were dying from,
it was already too late to
resew the stitches. I fall numb
onto the floor, and you strum
that guitar, the same songs
about living in a slum
and where your heart belongs.

But I can’t say I’d put the blame
on you for what you became.