I did it.
Guilty.
Shame has a way of hollowing me out.
I showed you my scars and you said they were nothing,
but now they're consuming my heart.

There's lots I could say,
want to.
But my credibility is only as good as the rest of me,
which is not.

I said: "not all things that have been broken are bad"
but now I'm distraught.

I could play therapist and analyze myself:
daddy issues - check
trust issues - check
abandonment issues - check check
check.

I ****** up.
I don't want to find an excuse
that'll make you stay.
Maybe that's why I pushed you away.

I don't want you to leave,
but I care too much not to let you.
I wish I would have realized sooner
and gotten my priorities straight.
We could lie together
never touching
and that would be okay.

And you could **** all the girls
and go into gruesome detail.
As long as you still had your finger on my heart.

But you wouldn't do that.
Because you're not **** like the others
and that's why I picked you.
You're perfect.

I'm afraid I'm not anymore.