You tell me stories of nights past, and speak of the worries you now carry. You must tell me because I listen, and you trust me. Here's one really helpful peace of advice: you shouldn't. Just when you think you're starting to see the world how I see it, I become someone else. I'm unpredictable. You think you can trust me because of all the things I can give and be and do. It sometimes seems like you're using me but deep down, I know you don't mean to. Not really. The thing that bothers me is how the second I feel alive again- I can decay from the inside out. I'm dealing in death. This isn't just a game of cards anymore. I've moved on from chance. And guess what? God doesn't play dice either. Please take my advice. Don't trust me. In exchange for the lonliness. You do not know how hard it is for me to kill the urge, destroy the cravings, break the means of want. Every fucking dream. Don't ever ask. You think you know me. These are the thots of my fading past. I can't hide now. Let myself GO. Guilty. (stop telling me your stories, i'm not a child anymore)