A noxious love infection hell bent on resurrection.
I need a cure. I always think she can save me, but I am impure. A dark heart stained with mascara ridden tears. Not my tears, of course; I have none to shed. That part of me left with you, baby; it’s dead. I would be free if I knew you still didn’t love me... too, but because I know you do I am shackled left to be ravaged by jackals. My own thoughts are these beasts; they love to feast on my festering internal despair. I can feel the savage, unyielding bites lacerate tender gentle parts of my soul. How many times have we tried this? Can this work? Have we changed? These questions greedily gnaw with the jackals.
Ah, we are mad love necromancers trying to revive what’s better off dead. So, let’s  just be through. All in all you were never good for me, and I was never good for you. So, don’t let me hear, “I love you too,” because if you do my wounds may never stop leakin’.
Our love was a once beacon, but even the brightest light may grow dim.  
I know I shouldn’t, but when I’m lonely I call out and say, “baby come back, please; come hold me.”
If you respond the cycle will continue. Ignore me and we’ll both be free.
We’ll be free of necromancy.