And ‘I hate that I love you’
The subtle betrayals and the
“Mr. Smith, but I don’t know you”

You’ve called in sick and then never called again
You cried for you, and
You cried when everyone watched
Broke the rules and fed yourself with sugar cones
For days
And nights
And vodka
And wine

You realized it’s you, walking into your own room
It’s you, keeping you up
It’s you, making you late
It’s you, making you come
And you can’t help it,
It is you

Sitting by the bar, a drink too big
Too wide, and dark and dry
You bite your nails and you
Keep coming back
For more of the same

So you try and say, “It’s your fault”
You say, “I know”
And you stare
At your notes of someone else’s
handwritten complaints
“Do I know you?”
You bet.