At the start, I didn't feel low enough. Your bed was unsettling and I was always a stranger. Now I'm clawing at my arms, reminiscing to feel something. As far down as I've ever been and I can't stop digging. I want to drag you down. I need you to feel low like me. Because I can't escape, can't stop burying. But I've adjusted well - I've come a long way from your holy place. Hiding below myself. Trying to reach hell. But now it's cold in my bed. I'm seeking rest. I'm distant again. And it hurts to reflect past midnight in an empty, pitch-black room. The candle burned out - I can smell the smoke as I'm cringing through another painful realization, another night sorting out the truth: telling you that I loved you was just another way I disappointed you. I know that now when I think about avoiding your eyes. I just hate how we died. I didn't say goodbye. I'm rejecting all my past standbys - no more sympathy for old lies. I'm trading "how could you" for the new: "you did what you had to do". I lost sight. I pay the price. I'm a dying dog on his way to the shed. Staring into the sky, don't give a f*** what's next. I don't care. I can't see it.