I can't believe I'm still writing about you.

I'm wasting my energy,

wasting my ink.

They say I'm hung up,

At least I'm no longer strung out.

I know what I said, and you know what I did

and my answer to the question of

"Would you do it all again?"

In case there was confusion,

let me spell it out for you.

I know it might be hard to process,

that this might hurt to digest,

but I really really really regret

all the times that I said yes to you

and all the times I led you into my room.

I'm wasting my energy,

wasting my breath

on something that'll never be

restored or resolved.

I think I must suck at healing if

I can make peace with you in my mind

but can't keep away the thoughts that keep me up at night.

They sing to me sweet lullabies

reminding me of every crime.

I'm wasting my energy by dwelling,

I'm wasting my ink by writing

about people who shouldn't matter to me.