I know it's getting harder for you to look me in the eyes when I'm talking, my slurred speech becoming progressively harder to understand. But still the lies flow from my mouth, still relatively coherent by the years of rehearsal. And while you recognize them for the lies that they are you don't find it any less easy to believe what it is that you want to hear.
I'm sick of the your accusing glares, the way you talk to me like I'm on a death bed. And your apathy over what I'm doing to you sickens me. I continue to tear you apart and you still come crawling up to me begging forgiveness for my trespasses. And if I loved you any less I would destroy you in a fit of laughter. If I loved you any more I would excise myself from you in a manner that would destroy me. But I do find a pleasure in the rending of your heart, in the games that I can't seem to stop playing. It's not that I'm a monster; it's just that sometimes I get a little zealous for the things that I want despite the pain and consequences.
But I do wish that in my eyes you would see something more than a melancholy hedonist. This isn't something I do for kicks; it's just another desperate attempt to escape the one thing that I fear the most.