So I can say whatever I want, right?
You only say you love me when you’re drunk.
How screwed up is that?
I love everything all that time, too much actually.
Except for you. You repulse me.
To the point that it hurts me,
living in constant agony.
You just live for her, and I don’t live at all
because I live waiting for you.
I scream into the void, “will someone love me?”
and then I smile at how pathetic I sound.
I’m finally as disgusting as I always though I was,
I knew I was the Messiah, of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Garbage and trash, that’s who I am now.
The maggot of human existence, a sign of death.
No one feels bad for you, so stop pitying yourself,
the only person who cares about your suffering, is you.