nothing you ever said was genuine

and now I’m the bad guy for thinking there might have been love there

you know exactly what to say to people and exactly the right time to say it

and it makes everybody so happy for those moments

but that affection murders your soul

because everyone wants to be your friend

because everyone loves you

because you’re a sell out to yourself

and you can’t ever say the “wrong” thing

so the annoying ones never go away,

so the assholes never fuck off---

I’ve always said the wrong thing at the wrong time on the wrong side of the planet

so somehow we must be perfect for eachother

but no

what I’d give for one drop of affection

not even yours (it'd be fake anyway)

these paintings just stare back

these words no longer phase me

this self-hate is no more than some wounded half-philosophy

it’s not even self-hate anymore

it’s just fucking pathetic