I see such passion in your eyes.
These pretty excuses that trigger distorted memories.
Man, how your love can feel like a weapon.
There's so much love, it might cave in my chest.
This portal of entry suggests a wound
too deep to extract functioning muscle.
Hearts are really nothing more than wires.
You planned on heartache to save us
from the tragic notion that we're perfect.
Suddenly, I'm convinced:
We are sometimes both lovers and fighters.
With no point to focus my eyes upon,
I've set up a million contrived stars
to balance out de(con)structive gravity.
And when the moon finally explodes,
maybe our spirits will align.
I'm oh so casually attempting to hold on
to picture imperfect glass memories,
with fingers carved from stone, smooth
and e(x)ternally indecisive, blackened
and tainted around the edges, bones
that break before they heal.
I think I'm built to always crash,
and I've considered a million possibilities
of last night's mistake and tomorrow's return.
This wound feels sacred, important,
somehow undisturbed by fingerprints.
This wound shows promise, and I gladly smile
to wipe the burns from your defeat.
Give me fifteen years and I will prove myself.
It's too fucking easy to hide behind words
where only I know the meaning, and I'm controlling
the chemistry with misplaced accuracy.
I never asked for forever, you just heard me wrong.
And with so little of the effort, you collapse on cue.
I have spent far too much time on reconstruction, your gaze
a searchlight that aims for the throat.
Oh, I'm quite the romantic when I'm hitting you.
Hitting on you, hitting on you, hitting on you.
Oh, you're quite a sight with your black eye.
Hitting on you, hitting on you, hitting on you.
Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.
I didn't mean to do that. I'm so fucking sorry.
I didn't mean to...
Hitting on you...
I didn't mean to...
Hit you.
I didn't mean to...
Hit...
I didn't mean...
Hit on...
I didn't...
Hit on you...
I didn't...
Hit you.
I didn't...
Hit you.
I didn't hit you.
Just tell them that and maybe tomorrow it'll be true.
It seems I haven't spent nearly enough time on discipline, my fist
a kiss that leaves a mark, a bruise, a threat worth contemplating,
a promise worth two broken ribs, a swollen jaw, and a bleeding heart,
liberal abuse of my masculinity, not to mention my paycheck.
Man, how my love can feel like a scar.
Oh, dear, you know that I love you
and that it's for your own good.
And for the good of our son.
Especially for the good of our son.
The boy needs a father.
And his father has to be a real man.
And a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
Give me five minutes and I'll show you love.
Don't talk back, you fucking bitch!
I love you so much.
You fucking cunt, how dare you!
You know I love you.
I demand some fucking respect!
You know I would never do anything to hurt you...
I'll fucking kill you, you goddamn whore...
...or our son.
...and your son!
If I can make things right...
If I can't have you...
...I will.
...no one will.
They say that time heals all wounds.
But I think you could use some make-up for now.
I know you will always love me.
I'll make damn sure of that.
I see such passion in your eyes.
These pretty excuses...
What are...
...that trigger...
...you...
...distorted memories?
...doing?
Man, how your love can feel like a weapon.
Honey, I love you.
Please.
I'm sorry.
I'm so fucking sorry.
I didn't mean to.
You know I didn't mean to.
Please.
Honey.
I'm sorry.
Please.
You know I love you.
Please.
Please put down the gun.
