terça-feira, 3 de julho de 2012


I light one cigarette after another, but only in my mind, because I'm not a smoker and I'll never be. When you talk like this I just want to crush something, but I clench my teeth and hold it in.
I hate being who I am. It's always me who's complaining, like you're the only one who ever wrongs.
But still... I can't help it, not when it hurts. I can't, I'm scared of becoming your punching bag.
So once again I let my voice out, and tell you this and that, maybe cry a little, or at least sob. But we'll get over it, right? It'll stop hurting.
And it's late so you leave, barely saying a word, annoyed at the world.
It's not my fault, is it? Is it? What have I done?
It's not, you say, but you sound as annoyed as you did before, because there's nothing I can do to help when you don't want to be helped.
But will be alright. Yeah? We'll be alright.

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