Losers in love.
It was all butterfly notes and cyanide kisses.
Fingers across lips.
Glassy eyes and cigarette-stained lies.

How much more can you take?
How much more can you fake?

Barrel in your mouth.
The foul, rusty, acrid taste of gunpower and saliva.
Fingers across the keyboard.
When all they are doing really is begging to pull the trigger.

How much more to make you wake?
How much more to make you break?

How much more before you have nowhere to fall to but hell?

The pursuit for truth and sanity only brings you further.
But the mirror never lies.

You haven't changed.
And you never will.