you woke me up from my bed of complacency, just to put me six feet under. brought me back to life, just to slit my throat; were you looking for satisfaction? all I needed was the groans to stop falling out of your mouth long enough for me to pick myself up, but all you did was shove lies down my throat: I had no choice, but to stomach them. and maybe someday when the sun stops setting, your words will stop all falling out at once like *****. and maybe when the moon no longer shines, we can stop pretending that you care about anything more than the pills in your medicine cabinet. and yourself. and maybe when the waves stop breaking on the shore, you'll realize I do care, but I can't take this anymore. you said you hate cliches, but I don't love you like a cliche. I don't miss you like the moon misses the sun, or how my pencil misses my notebook, or how your razors miss your skin. I miss you like you resent the flowers that wilt at the sound of your voice. I miss you like an old, burnt out light bulb misses it's lit filament, or like the way you miss yourself from a year ago: bright eyes and high ambitions. you leave me, a rotting cadaver, in an empty cave; are you still looking for satisfaction?