The Things We Don't Talk About

One More Chance

I beg and I plead
for one more chance.
Just one more chance
and I'll get it right this time.
Just one more chance
and I won't screw it up this time.
Just one more chance,
please, just one more chance.

But you and I both know that's a fairytale,
the idea that I couldn't screw something up.
I manage to screw up even the smallest, insignificant things.
And I swear I don't want pity.
That's not why I'm writing this.
I just want to be realistic and honest,
and honestly, I don't deserve another chance.

I haven't been honest in a long time.
I've been secretive and private and closed off.
I don't want to need help.
I want to be able to handle everything on my own.
But truth be told, I'm fucking miserable and stressed and angry all the time.
I haven't felt happy in a very long time,
besides fleeting moments throughout the day,
which are nonexistant by the time I lay down to go to sleep at night
in the numb empty melancholy I've learned to call home.
And truth be told, I'm sick of damn near everything that this life has to offer.

And I don't want to fight. Not anymore.
I wanna lay down and surrender.
This—whatever it was—isn't fun anymore.
I'm not the bright-eyed ray of sunshine I once was,
I'm not Smiley anymore.
I wanna quit and I don't wanna try anymore.
And I know that's not what you want to hear,
but I'm trying to be honest here for once.

But I'll take one more chance
and try to get through this fiery pit of hell
for you.
And I hope to god, for your sake alone,
that I make it through.

I beg and I plead
for one more chance,
and despite your better judgement,
you always give me just one more,
hoping this time will be the last one more I need
before I'm okay.

And I hope to god,
for both our sakes,
that this time,
it is.