Chapter 1 - The Occurence of It

I remember the mascara,
Bleeding down your cheeks
I remember your pleasant diaspora,
That you lost with my being

I recall feeling like I never loved you,
But now I know that's nothing but a blatant lie
The state of denial that I exist in too,
Is killing me, by and by

Cup your face, I wish I could,
Coo gentle words to pacify I would
But would not it mean going back in the day?
For would not it mean, losing at my own game?

Don't come looking for apologies,
For oblige you I wouldn't
Tell tales of me to your offspring,
About the kind to love and the kind they shouldn't.