Just because I don't paint my emotions out like the f**king
Mona Lisa doesn't mean they're too awful hard to figure
out.
It doesn't mean that I'm as cold inside as you are,
though it seems that's how you've made me.
I honestly can't take this anymore.
I can't take YOU anymore.
It's driving me nuts, thinking we can be alright for even a few
hours.
But I say something and you go off again.
Tell me to leave again.
I'm sick of it all.
I'm sick of life,
and all of my joyful problems.
Too many times I've sat and went over, and over, and over
again
in my head on how I could end it.
Sometimes I forget why I don't.