You killed my heart.
By it was my fault.
I was searching for reasons to make you hate me.
A master of my twisted craft, I forced you into this.
Now I sit amongst the smoking rubble of my life,
Everything burnt away but the pain.
I tip my empty glass in agony, willing just one more drop to appear,
To satisfy my thirst.
My dreams are mostly dead, my latest is to keep the drunken stupor for as long as possible.
This bland, empty nothing, with the dull ache reminding me that you're never going to love me.
Though I loathe those who succumb to wallowing, I finally understand the hype.
For there truly is nothing so beautiful and sweet as someone in the throes of self torment.