What is wrong with me?
Why do I play these games with you?
Do you think I enjoy it?
--That I derive pleasure from my own disease?
I am torn apart each day.
A vulture and a dove
--constantly shredding my mind, my soul, your heart.
What was it you once said?
--filleting my heart on your fickle mind
You said if of her. You say it of me.
And it's true.
And I hate it.
I wish I didn't remind you of her, the things she did.
I wish I could take it back. All of it.
Maybe if we'd never met you would still be whole.
There must be a purpose in it.
But maybe there's not.
I hate that I hurt you.
But I do it anyway.
--if you still can.
But maybe you shouldn't.
--all I do is hurt you.
What is wrong with me? --