Crossing Oceans

Music doesn’t start until about 50 seconds in. Jill Andrews – "Always Be Sorry"

"There is darkness in you like I’ve never seen."

So this is why we keep each other around? Why there’s a half-life on the fallout every time.
I know you’re not stupid. You just have your addictions; I have mine. And half a mind to tell you to run. I tried to make you do just that the only way I knew how, and then I buckled under the weight of it. I intended for some of that to seem intentionally ridiculous and sarcastic. Apparently, the sarcasm didn’t translate. The message was so corrupt that by the time it left my lips, even I took myself seriously. I’m beginning to forget who I am, and I knew that would happen. I ran headlong into this, anyway, and I don’t intend to change course. So, you should leave now, but I know you won’t, and you know I won’t let you. But it would be so easy to just give up. Too easy. Is that the problem?

"And I can’t say how long I’ve known you, but I can tell how you’ve changed me. And I am grateful, but I am angry."

Some days I wake up and know exactly what I am. Most days I can pretend, but the truth is I’m dangerous. I’m the well in the desert that will keep inviting you back, comforting you with another conveniently-timed potion, only for you to discover, maybe years later, it’s acid I’ve been pouring in your veins. It’s anger, at the core. Unbridled anger. And what doesn’t that breed? I realized years ago, and I’ve been saying it since:
I’m the nicest person you’ll ever meet, and the most dangerous man you’ll ever get to know.

"There are people out there who call you a friend, but they don’t really know you. They’ll just smile at your face, buy you a drink or two. When the lights come up, they always do, everyone in this place seems so confused, and they’ll get in their cars and drive away from you."

I play on your fears and insecurities. You expose all mine.
You say I don’t have to say a thing, and I don’t. And I take and take, and I lash out.
I don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to just wash my hands of it, leave it all behind and stop trying to fix it. If I could only leave that disaster behind, it’d be like it never happened. Nothing but scars in odd places left to smile at me during the worst of times. But we just couldn’t settle for that, now could we?

Because you get it, and I get you. And I think we’d rather tear each other apart for eternity before we ever settled for being blissfully content. There’s a problem here that needs fixing. I don’t hate you, even if I’ve wanted to in the past. I never could. Tell me there’s something left in here worth salvaging. I can’t fix it; I give up. And, yeah, I’ve been the demon. I stopped trying to even hide it. But I don’t want to be anymore.

I just want it to be good again.
Or, more honestly, I just want it to be good like it never could have been.
How do we do that?