Buttered Guns

Crazy, jealous, never changing. Always changing her answer but never changing anything real. I should've given her more time. I should've given me more time. I should've let myself know what it was like. For myself at the very least. No one can truly be alone for only three days.

I heard her out, that was my first mistake. I should've stuck to my guns, I never stick to my guns, my guns are smooth and slick and covered in butter or something. I should know better than to listen. I have listened. I've listened plenty. Heard you much and believed it all and now is no different. Me and my goddamn ears.

Am I this desperate to be close to someone? Am I, somewhere down deep, lonelier than I've ever known? Could it really be as bad as all that? And is this? Shouldn't I be happy for what I have, when some people have so little, when some people have nobody. I guess I should be grateful.

And this is how I get stuck. This is how I'm always in the cycle. Excuses, excuses. This is how I go to bed at night.