I get so sick of it, you know. All the flowery ways in which I could say “I fucked up, and I don’t know if there will ever be time to fix it.” and there are kind smiles from all the obliged ones, who can’t escape my incessant mess, because we are bound by blood or subservient to sycophantic sentimentality.
Writing another verse about how I am the fucking worst. Lamenting that nobody likes me, but much like Morrissey, I don’t care. Shouting to an empty room about how it’s so unfair, to be so brilliant, but never beloved.
I will be applauded, again, for being vulnerable and honest, for tearing the skin from my broken bones and putting on a show of the deepest emotion. God, won’t you help me? I’ve been dying for decades, and I don’t know how to live with that. And… and it’s all so raw, so the people will applaud, because I got out my notebook, instead of going to therapy (again), and I’m on my knees, wailing and whinging about how nobody’s love will ever be enough for me, because I have spent my life chasing a high that could never exist.
One day, I will live in an ancient palace, just to be dramatic and decadent. The walls will echo with torment, and the girl I love will be galled by the restraining order I gifted her for Valentine’s Day. I will be barren and broken hearted. A recluse. Writing another verse, about how I am the fucking worst, and how it was all so inevitable, and I promise you, I will be so sick of it all.