I told myself I was lonely.

But what I told me wasn’t true.

I told you that you were homely.

And there was nothing I could do.

It’s just that I got bored sometimes.

At all expectations, gravitas.

And I would see what I could fuck with.

And perhaps hear you say no mas.

You said that I was awful.

Even suggested that I was cruel.

Sometimes, I was just a little drunk.

And maybe one of us was a fool?