The darkness was more your significant other
than I ever could be and it's easy to see why
since you spent much more time conversing with your father's pistol than you spent admiring the way my curves are shaped.

I've always wanted to ask you if that cough medicine tasted better than my skin, but you fell asleep before I could tell you. I wonder if that's why you would cradle your bottle of pills, the way I used to wish you'd cradle me.
Is it better company than my eyes?
Or is that where you go so you can't see my eyes?
I'm not the pinnacle of judgment -- you can't escape every pair of eyes that follow you.

I would knock on the window panes sometimes because there was no **** on your door and no doorbell to let you know I was there. You never really answered.

I became a shadow -- I thought you'd love me darker.

So I faded my smile and faded my jeans. My nails were black, I wore my lips dark maroon and I began to acquaint myself with your reaper on Friday nights when no one else was in the house. I never touched your pills though.

But I'm finding that even a shadow has nothing on your fondness for picking out your gravestone. Cigarette smoke fills your lungs better than my perfume and I can't compete with your harem of dark habits.

So I'm going out of town tonight with my lips colored like berries and I'd ask if you'd be the one to smudge it but
you're more into dying and less into a kiss of life.