This title belongs to an entire different writing project, but my scrambled potential poetry fell below the title, with nothing on topic filling in what I intended.
I think you're obsessed with my mess.
That's the only logical explanation for why you listen so intently.
I stopped writing so you wouldn't see
and misconstrue me
Don't you hate it when that trauma comes sneaking in just to remind you that you're never going to be ok. Don't worry I annoy myself enough for the both of us
-"You never know what you've been through until you go to cough it out"-
As if you have anything worthy to say
The memories are getting fainter and fainter, but I know I'll always hate her
I'll forever remember how she made you felt.
That horrible taste she brought about.
I just want it out, I want it out.
All----the roads that never lead
We drove every inch and seemed to never have much more to need
Not knowing if it's really love or just that rambling weed
I'm a different kind of reckless
I like the time it takes to get somewhere. When the adrenaline strips you raw.
I try not to be your chaos, but you seem to like it. Maybe you really are just obsessed with the mess. Maybe it makes you feel better about yourself.
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