trapped in an indecisive metaphor

plagued by incertainties,
just lifeless battles
between what is  
and what it could have been,
held back by the what if's,
back being kept straight by
"this is it".
by and bye,
bye and buy it all again,
we will pay the price for it all
in the very end.

And the beds still made
just the way you had left it,
a lonely grave for me  
to lie an and accept it.
but if the truth be told
well i'd still reject it,
lies are an art
that are lived and perfected.

i've seen this room before,
the one with the sticking window
the one with the locked door.
sometimes i swear i've never left,
the air is always stale
the walls still painted with regret.
at least in here  
i get a honest sleep,
head comforted by earnest,
a heart blanketed in defeat.

and the beds still made
just the way you had left it
a lonely grave for me  
to lie an and accept it,
but if the truth be told
well i'd still reject it,
lies are an art
that are lived and perfected.

by this time  
we run out of things to blame,
we stop holding our breath
and start holding our shame,
and of this
i confess
i am truly afraid,
when do we cross the line  
of who we become
and who we've became?