You know what? I'm wiping my hands clean of all your shit. Does that truly make you happy? Does that make you want to jump for joy and spring in the air? You're not the only victim here, you poison everyone around you with your loneliness, suck out all the happiness in the vicinity the moment you come into the picture, stick out like a sore, pampered thumb.
You expect everyone to sympathize with you and understand your situation. You expect them to be able to be there for you when your mood swing switches from depressing to trying to slice everyone's heads off with your sharp silence, and cutting sarcasm. You don't expect us to get pissed off back after trying to help you, and getting fucked up responses.
I'm wiping my hands off your shit.
And, you know what? I actually think she was right to let go because if she didn't, you'd be holding onto her, sucking out all her life like a leech. She is the Puppeteer, and you are the puppet. But she doesn't have your heart anymore, you've tied the strings on too tight, and now she's cut all the threads.
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