I wish I could tell you that it goes away, that it gets better,
that you'll get over it.
My dreams of my lover are true. They're real.
I hate to kill you,
I'd hate to die,
you seem a decent fellow as well
I could have pretended to be something like all of them, I could have played a game and fit in with those around me and I knew if I did I would never really be me
I don't have to keep living,
I get to.