CLXIII.

Could you tell me what it's like to pull out all my insides?
Is it as empty as we'd both thought it would be?
I keep wishing that your heart wouldn't beat while I'm not around.
Then you'd have to have me back, like the winters nights we spent.
You told me not to write and God forbid I did,
So I buried all the letters. Now I stand on top of my roof
And I yell these all the lines in the direction of your house,
So maybe then you'd know that this is killing me.
My throat is dry, my voice is gone.
I'd take you back even if it was just to let you tear me back apart.
I don't care if you care anymore.