You’ve got the grin of a liar, and the frown of being caught.
I don’t trust you for a minute, you’re not the person I once loved.
And you’ve been ****** with all your damning, at least inside my mind.
But inside my chest, a grave is being dug.
Rest in peace the girl who loved with open arms, scarless and white;
eager to please, without walls and without weeping.
I don’t know if you’re playing dead, or the coffin’s sealed and shut.
And if you’re being buried, I, too, will have a tomb; RIP the girl you once knew.
Were you always such a sinner, selfish and insatiable and scarring?
I believed you every second, every whisper in my ear.
Take a bow and pack your things, or somehow prove me wrong.
I used to think the world of you, and how beautiful a place was this world with you in it.
I’m running out of reasons and you’re running out of time.
If patience is a virtue, call me a sinner, too.
But now we’re both nearly six feet under and the stars are dimming.
The box of your beloved words to me is burning in my stomach and ringing in my ears;
you don’t care anymore, if you ever did.
On my heart you’ve left nothing but tea rings and bullet holes and burns and cracks.
But what hurts the most is not any of this, but that I still can’t regret a thing.