It’s not my fault I wronged her, if you could even call it that.

Because when she moved her stupid mouth,

she was just a spoiled brat.

She always talked about her family, the good of every day,

But she never stopped to wait and think of intentions gone astray.

Not all of us are lucky, in fact most of us are not.

For when I go home late at night, I wish my ears to rot.

My music wards of fighting screams, sound up to fifty-four.

As every night goes slowly past, I long to run outside the door.

Of course, in their eyes I’m a villain, a bully, not a friend.

And thought I’d tried to be nice once, there’s no compromise in the end.