Can you say you loved me now?
Or did you finally come down from your self-inflicted sickness?
Can you ever say you miss this? That listless pining, supposed dying, just to have me?
To hear me? To to be near me?
To share your fears with me?
That yearning, lusting feeling you once described so exquistly?
Can you honestly say you miss me?
Sometimes I wonder.
I wonder what true monsters are made of;
the lust of once trusting lovers,
their innocence torn asunder by the heartbreak from another,
or those others whose thundering passion, consistant infatuation
and lack of understanding of themselves
that turns a loving soul to hell.
Can you say you love me now?
Have you finally admitted to yourself that I was nothing
to save face and claim that I was no more than childish lusting?
To keep yourself from breaking, you pretend that you are angry,
drown yourself in hating me, and pass your fury along
to another unsuspecting?
How poetically fitting.
Those sleepless nights meant nothing;
it was all in your head.
I was nothing more than a monster under your bed,
where my memory now lies dead.
How easy "true love" is to forget.
Those words you said, soaked in poison.
I'm no more the monster than you are the saint.
But even still...
I hope you sleep better these days.