Sharpen Your Knives and Prepare for War

Sometimes you make it really hard for me to love you.
Sometimes I think the only reason I love you is because I have to.
Sometimes I think the only reason you love me is because you have to.

It hurts, not the fact that I think that's the only reason you love me.
That actually doesn't bother me at all.
Because I really hate you write now.
I really, really do.

But the fact that you know how much I'm hurting and you make it worse.
I said I was sorry.
I said I'll try my best.
I said I'd never lie to you again.
Apparently that wasn't good enough.
You took away the one thing I was looking forward too.
Just ripped it from me.
Crushed me.

You took my money too.
You said you can because your my mother and we needed groceries.
Like that's an excuse.
You didn't even tell me.
You didn't even ask.
You just took it.
We didn't even need groceries.
Certainly not a hundred dollars worth.

I think I would die if I didn't have music.
I can block out the world.
I can block out you.
I can hide my hate.
I can hide my tears.

The tears you make me cry.
The hate you make me feel.

You don't care do you?
You ask me why I'm depressed?
You ask like you don't know.
You know.
You fucking know.

Stop acting innocent.
Stop acting like you don't know.
Stop acting like you care/

You do it in front of the doctor.
But I know it's an act.
I see the looks you give me.
The looks of hate.
Which is why I say nothing when you're in the room.

I told the doctor I didn't talk to you.
Why? She asked.
I told the doctor I couldn't trust you.
Why? She asked.
Because you used to snap at me.
That's only part true.
But the doctor doesn't need to know that.

You nag me about homework.
You nag me about dishes.
You nag me about my room.
You nag me about laundry.

But then we go to the doctor's.
You cry when I say I think about killing myself.
You say I won't open up to you and that hurts you.

It doesn't hurt you.
Why are you lying?
You never ask me anything.
You just nag me.

You get mad when I ignore you.
Now you know how it feels.

Rarely you used to ask me about my feelings.
I say 'I don't know' to all your questions.
I'm not going to tell you.
You're a gossiper.
You don't care.
Why should I tell you?

You don't ask anymore.
I think that's smart of you.
I thought you learned.
But I realize that it's only because you don't care.
At all.
You don't care at all anymore.

It should probably hurt more than it does.
To know your own mother doesn't care.
But it doesn't.
Because I have music.
I have paper and pens.
I have pillows.
I have wrists.

I have music I can blast to block the hate and hurt.
I have paper and pens to write down my hate and hurt.
I have pillows to throw and punch to express my hate and hurt.
I have wrists to cut so I'm numb and the hate and hurt disappears, a little.

But none of that can mask the tears.
But I try to hide them

It only works sometimes.
I can only bottle them up for so long.
My tears.
They're like a pot of boiling water.
It's only so long before they spill over.

And then there's nothing you can do but wait until they stop