I guess I could've been nicer.
I could've offered you my coat.
You get complacent when you're vulnerable.
You're faking it, and everybody knows.
You space out on your way out.
I guess you don't do well alone.
I know you get too drunk and you still drive home.
You're irresponsible, but even worse at letting go.
You said you wanted to be a writer, so you could rewrite where everything went wrong.
You've focused on the plot, but didn't let the characters evolve.
You're not over it at all.
I guess I could've been nicer.
I've got a tendency to be cold.
When you're filling holes with wood and corks and glue, no one likes this version of you.
It's like we both look distorted.
Hiding in the pictures of when we were young.
Now, you don't believe in love.
Do you believe in anything at all?
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