torn

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 don't.

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.
Forgive me
--if you still can.

But maybe you shouldn't.
--all I do is hurt you.

What is wrong with me? --