I am left with this impression of deception,
stamped upon my own misconception.
I miscalculated when I walked out the door,
how many nails from my coffin were sticking out of the floor.
I tripped on them as I made my way across the porch,
and then had to run from your pitchfork and torch.
I see it now when I look in the mirror,
this monster looking back couldn't be any clearer.
But even Frankenstein was just scared and alone,
so let thee without sin cast the first stone.
Right now "sorry" is too loaded a word,
to be even slightly properly heard.
I don't need forgiveness I just want some slack.
I want to stitch up the knife wound I left in your back,
but it sure does make sense that you don't trust me with sutures.
I only hope you can again in the future.
I never did mean to turn into a liar,
or set my own pair of pants on fire,
but no matter how hard I want to put it out
there is no water during a drought.
I walked across bridges in these same burning pants.
Of course they collapsed, they stood no chance.
I've exiled myself to an island of fire,
and as I look around I think...I deserve to die here.
Betraying your trust hurts worse to me
than a burn of the worst degree.
I just wish I knew what to do to fix it,
but this isn't something I can patch up with a tool kit.