Seems just about right
Dead-end theories of things I love to hate
There's nothing like seeing your face, your smile, on a daily basis.
Hell, if I saw you once in a year, that feeling will not have been erased.
When you give me that look, however brief or protracted, I am simultaneously destroyed and rebuilt.
It's a sin what I think of you sometimes, but I can seriously live with that guilt.

In my mind's eye, I can remember every detail, the minute features that make you what you are and unique.
I'm a devil, you're an angel, it's chaotic cacophony when I think, melodic symphony when you speak.

There's nothing about you that I don't love, but it's what I become that I hate.
A walking catastrophe, absent-minded, my thoughts register too little, too late.

What is this that you've done to me? What voodo did you do, did you do?

My waking moments are filled with images of you constantly.
Ambiguity is the rule to the way that we play this game.
Lucidity is what I want, and it's that fact that's the real shame.

Existence is vapid and shallow at this lowest of lows, and my hopes are rapid and fleeting like death throes.
FUCK the doubt, fuck the dark history, fuck friendship and it's benefits and gains.
I AM THE BULLET, YOU ARE THE TRIGGER, POINT THE BARREL AT MY HEAD AND BLOW OUT MY BRAINS.