Look, I know I don't owe you anything.
But without the casual back talk and the rebuttal of your face in the couch,
beer in the crook of your arm, and bare feet I'll ask you
why'd you sleep with her?
Why'd you do this to me?

I'll slap you so you get up,
lean over the shoulder I sit next to you
and pour your words on my lap as I pretend to sleep.
And as your unknown confession is listened,
between words you won't remember you said
I'll fall sentimental,
and start tucking your secrets with my hand on your head
behind your ears that are sliced with my whispers
that I'll love you even though you broke into me.
That I'll keep staying until I don't remember why I need to leave.

Then you'll roll over and the cut on your lip will awaken my senses,
rustle the belief
as I quietly ask you what happened.
You'll wipe the spit from your chin,
take a breath that smells like bad mornings,
and tell me it's nothing of my concern.
When I beg for the explanation,
put my thumb against the dried blood reminder
that no matter how solemn your soul
you'll never stop hurting me,
you'll turn away and tell me to go.
Tell me you never actually needed me to stay.

I'll stand up with a face painted fury,
and scream at the things I should have come to expect.
The same rage I slammed the door with when I entered,
now races in my heart as I try to lay it down
on the floor so you can see how badly you broke me
when I heard that there was another her.

"She was just a body,"
you'll start to stutter
"I was drunk and it didn't mean a thing."
But your dreary eyes and your half molded chest
waltzing over to me with a lust in your hands,
tell me that your words in the moment I capture you
mean nothing passed the second their said.

Look, I know I don't owe you anything.
But there's something in the way you look at me that begs the question
to be said under the weight of the consequence of never really being the same
I'll ask you
Why is this all the better we'll ever be?
Why'd you have to do this to me?