You tell me all thats left of me is speeches,
and they always end the same way.
Blame... blame... the victim game.
So maybe I did use you for comfort,
but then why's my bed so cold?
And all you can offer is this blanket of regret.
At least you're sure to wrap me up tightly,
before feeding me your somber bedtime stories.
You know I was always better at midnight fables.
And I can see you're exhausted at the thought.
Your yawns are growing louder by the minute;
drowning my apologies into the darkness.
I know you're ready to sleep my dear,
even if you still need a helpful dose.
But my truth is your hardest pill to swallow.
You forever wake just before quarter to two and check on me.
The hour my glass heart pours ink to whatever pages are nearest.
Even your wrath dare not ask me to get some rest.
Cause, I feel like I've been sleeping for years now.
But it's starting to get old real fast,
and I'm longing for another sleepless night.