No rest for the wicked.

So fucking tired of all the lies.

Why can't you just stop pretending like there was any other way.

Like you hadn't been dying to get out.

Like it hadn't been months, and the thought drove you insane.

Insane to the point where you couldn't do anything but hate.

You probably hated yourself, too. I could see it, you hated everything.

But you'll never admit it, because you're so fucking stubborn like that.

Oh, no, of course not. None of it can ever be your fault, of course not.

Never ever.

Hold your breath until you turn blue.

But instead of just coming out with it, you decided to let the cards stack up higher and higher.

If only you weren't so fucking scared, right? Until the cards all had to come crashing down,

there weren't many more choices left. Were there?

Fuck you. I grew tired too.

I grew hateful too.

I grew pissed off, too.

I didn't get on a fucking high horse though.

I didn't fucking sear through your every insecurity with a cutting knife.

And I didn't fucking ... oh fuck it.

I could have turned a blind eye to all the anguish I dished out too,

and maybe I did. But mine wasn't voluntary.

I guess it's true what they say though. Bad things happen to bad people.

No rest for the wicked.

If I was young, I'd flee this town.