It’s not me, it’s you.

Who will you be today?
Regretful, brimming with why didn’t I’s
and wondering what technically
constitutes a lie. (Cry.)

For all your wasted fears
the demons of your past haven’t shed
a single tear, triumphantly lazy,
it takes near to nothing to fill you with dread.

Misery in the lining of your bedsheets.
Here are some new, a pillowcase or two,
time to face the fucking bastards
and tell them “We’re through”

Tell them,
“It’s not me, It’s you.”

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