I wonder if you go the dungeon to make peace with your days of hurt.
Writing you a letter gave no more peace than what I felt when we weren’t speaking.
I used to think you were kissed by God full on the lips.
I just have no ambition to try and resurrect what we had.
You said so many things that were easily refuted.
But the conversation began to lack anyway, I’m kinda happy you’ve shut your stuff off.
You know how much you hated to be interrupted, you were so egocentric.
It always had to be about you. I like the fact that you’re nothing like me.
You gloated of your charmed life, and never seemed to understand the rest of us.
I was tired of your jeckyl and hydeness, why did I put up with it?
You need a figurative slap on the wrist.
Nothing here allotted will make an ounce of difference.
I was in the front row, I saw you close up.
I was your friend, that’s why I loved you regardless.
And that’s all I asked for in return. Why?
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