God’s grace was a waste, when it came to you,
but I adored you,
nevertheless, never less than you liked to be loved.
I collected all the world’s treasures and took them to your bedside,
praying for patience from the planets as they made plans to collide,
and in that moment,
I remembered that love was an exorcism, and said goodbye to my soul.
I told that secret to somebody once,
and they clawed at my core,
desperate demon, dragging me to the depths,
but I learned to let them live without me,
because we were both rich in sins,
reaching for relief from ourselves that would never come.
It’s okay that we’re not in love.
Holding back the tides and troubling times when we are bound to be reckless.
It’s okay to only give a little of yourself,
when you know you can’t trust yourself.
You’ve started drinking again.
Do you see what I mean?
You’ve started drinking again,
and this is why we’re not in love.
I can tell by how rosy your cheeks seem to be,
how you get manic on main as midnight makes its way onto the stage,
and how you call me,
to tell me that I’ll always be your pretty little piseag.