But, Why Would You Care?/Knuckle Puck.
Why do you have to fucking ruin EVERYTHING for me?
don’t stare at the moon too long or else you’ll remember that nothing in this stupid fucking world makes sense
I’m so sick of heroes. So sick of men swooping in and telling me their stories— I don’t care who you saw die or the people you hurt or the people who hurt you. I don’t need your help and I don’t fucking want it. I don’t need a hero, and I most definitely don’t need you, on your high horse; do I look like a damsel in distress? Before my husband was a monster, he was a hero, too. I’m done cleaning up nightmares, done tending old, infected wounds, done drying stubborn eyes. I have my own wounds to lick, my own scars to count. I’m sick of being told I need saving— and I’m sick of saving. Leave me be.
I love you.
Why, though? I don’t have a hard time getting attention, but its empty. It’s always been so empty since I met you.
Lord help me— God in heaven have mercy on the soul of any man to meet my lips after you, because I won’t.
Is it even real?
How many separate times are you planning to break my heart?