There are a thousand things I want to scream at you

make you understand the pain you put me through:

The bullet in my head and 

the crevice in my heart.

You said you loved me,

but, as I began to crumble to a pathetic dust

you mumbled something about an emergency

and bolted.

Of all the souls I thought would leave,

you were the last.

You always wanted to be the first,

and I suppose I thought that the throwing of the stone

would be the exception.

And now I pass you in the hallway.

Your eyes scan over me, 

searching for a face in the crowd where it once saw mine.

And I hate you for it.

I hate how you gave up on me, 

deciding I was a lost cause out of the fucking blue

when I was three weeks clean to keep you 

a part of my life.

And I suppose you were right.  I'm a goner.