The more you talk, the more that I become addicted to the pain.
Your wit, your style, your siren song will make me go insane.
The more I try, the more you fight, baring your gritted teeth.
I sheath my sword, abandon ship, and you come chasing after me.
My bark is no match for your bite, you mention with a grin.
In your embrace I fight no more, and know I’ll never win.
“We’re meant to be,” you say quite sure, as liars often do,
but I see the knife behind your back, and know my foil is you.
You’ll bury me beneath the land with all your broken toys,
and sing a song about a man you slaughtered like a boy.
I hate how much I love you.