And yet the whiskey keeps pouring; your reality becomes less and less apparent
You start telling me about what you really think of me
And I don't like it; you tell me you hate me;
because of the way my heart is
And you know I can't stand it when you get like this;
but you refuse to stop drinking because it makes the pain go away
But does it really go away?
Or is it just masked?
Because I'm pretty sure that you just hold everything inside;
at least until you are alone
Because I have walked in on you;
crying on the floor screaming for my forgiveness.
All you needed to do is ask.
But it is too late.
I don't care anymore.