My stomach's feeling rather queezy again.
Drunk on your half-truths and excuses.
Or maybe it's just the oxys I put in me,
after a long night of pretending I wouldn't die for you.
I sing along to your favourite songs,
but we both know it resembles the screaming in my heart.
I'm fortunate enough for it to keep me awake
on the nights I haven't fell victim to your sleep paralysis.
You come and go like fragmented flashbacks.
Quick moments like the decent of a falling star.
And I've sat here settled in lacklustered contentment,
waiting for you to finally burn out.
But you never fucking do...