You made the claim
that I was wrong about the gaslights
getting dimmer,
only parroting what they told you.
I felt sorry
for being angry,
and stupid,
and so, so crazy.

At six in the morning,
I woke up in the dark
to monsters in my closet
and a note from you.
“If you don't want to stumble,” you wrote,
“then don't run.”
I started believing that I had plenty of light.

A fairly amiable broad took me by the hand,
and I was a good friend,
so I followed.
A good friend, but an awful sister,
who loved the wrong way.
She was being better than the both of us
while we were playing “monster”
(than you).

No matter what we say,
I will never stop knowing
how we lost each other in the dark.

Since then, I've accepted my fate:
I will lose everyone in the dark.