“Sometimes I think I just want to be miserable.”
That was the thought that crossed my mind when I finished,
And I just lie there in the bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling
Remembering that this is not where I want to be,
And despite my despair-induced decision to be here,
It’s a poor substitute for my desired destination.
Not only has this become my own routine, personal hell,
But when I look to my side and see that faceless smile—
Unidentifiable outside this cocoon of languish and self-afflicted torment I’ve spun—
I recall the peril I’m putting another person’s happiness in,
And then I just realize I’m a shitty person doing even shittier things.
It’s in these moments that I wonder if my choice was the catalyst or the result:
Did I let you slip away because I believed I didn’t deserve you?
Or have I become said shitty person because I let you slip away?
It’s the great mystery of my life, one I’m sure I’ll never solve;
And anyway, you seem to be getting along much better without me.
. . .
Yeah, I think I just want to be miserable.