My mind is a graveyard,
of memories I’ve put to rest,
sometimes I’ll drop off flowers for the ones still banging at my chest,
but I’ve learned the more I visit them,
the more they hurt,
like ghosts they’ll haunt me,
till I dig them back up,
God, why do I love playing with zombies that never even loved me?
people who care for you don’t make you dig up graves,
just to bury themselves again,
but truth is,
zombies aren’t real,
and neither were your apologies,
because who apologizes by digging up dead memories,
instead of planting flowers on their graves.