Deranged little girl
Or a twisted woman?
She doesn't know which one she is.
Her only love doesn't care.
No one does.
He never did, does, or will.
Woe is her.
"Her" is me.
Oh, woe is me.

He ripped out my heart
And tore it up into bite-sized pieces
So that he could chew me up and spit me out,
Just like I deserve to be treated: like trash.
I gave him my life.
He gave me his fake "I love you, too"s.
He doesn't want anything to do with you.
No one does.
That's life... or death.
Dead inside, unfeeling.
Numb.
Cold.
Rotting.
Death is death however you look at it.

I sit and ask myself why I keep waiting for him.
The real solution hasn't been found.
The only answer I can come up with is
"I love him."
Too bad.
He doesn't love you back.
No one does.
He lies to you.
And you know it.
You know damn well that he does.
And you also know that you mean nothing to him,
Nothing at all.

You can make-believe that he might think about you.
But so can everyone else.
Everyone can pretend.
People have the right to dream.
Not me.
Where I belong, no one does.
When I try to dream, my hopes are crushed.
Along with the rest of my soul.

Being nice gets you nowhere.
I know from experience.
All I have to hold on to are my memories.
My memories of pain, torment, and lost wishes.
As I die through my thoughts,
I want him to know that I was thinking of him.
Of my only love.
Of "the one."
Even though everyone else does.