His soul is a broken record player
Constantly, he's making the same mistakes again and again

With every cough he spits out
from the overbearing cigarettes
It's his lungs crying inside

The red ink of his pen
is the resemblance of what drips into the sink after midnight
Thoughts process onto paper
just like the blade processes on his skin

And during the night
in his solemn and cold as a tombstone bedroom,
as he sleeps heavenly
the crickets chirp just outside his window
leaving me to think of it as the peace
that he and I have will never make

There's things being left unsaid
and it's tearing me down

From the nights of screaming at each other
to the times I've come home smelling like alcohol
with my eyeliner smudged
and my shirt being someone else's but yours

Realizing that I'm behind it all of why you're like the way you are
was just as hard facing the fact that you are the reason
why I'm like the way I am today

You're changing
and *I've changed