I just wish you'd tell me what I've done wrong.
I know it's selfish of me to ask, I fuck things up for us each and every single day. I say things I don't mean, they get under your skin, you don't get my time-warped sense of humour.
It's selfish of me to ask that you point out yet again what it is that is so painfully, devastatingly wrong.
For what I have done, I cannot name. I am unsure what has set you off this time.
I suppose that I should know by now how to contort myself to your whims and four humors.
I am profusely apologetic for the fact that now I am left clueless.
Neither of you will tell me what is wrong. I am the common denominator.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Sky (SS 1)
PoetryTRIGGER WARNING emotional exhibitionism; raw, unfortunate honesty. non-fiction. includes songs and significant lyrics. this is probably shit.
