When he wonders why
I could never love him back;
I want to say,
“Because I’m fucking sick of you.”
And that is really true.
The mistake I had made
Was not to tell it straight
Until it was too late.
And he drove me to exasperated shreds,
His constant whinging, begging and thinking
his love had weight.
But empty it was, and my heart was dead.
So I finally tell it straight;
I’m so happy that my heart is dead.