I’ve said it before, time
and again—
I’m done,
I’m done,
I’m done.  It ends,
and no one’s won,
one falls
while the other runs,
and it’s just too much
too soon, too little too late,
and I making myself clear?
There’s no give, just take.
 
So, it’s that—yeah,
just like that, and don’t argue
with me, boy, about forgiveness
and nonsense, being too busy
and too broke
and too stretched thin,
because, at the end of it,
you’re just emotionally bankrupt.
 
Does that sound harsh?
Well, good.  You deserve a little blood
spilt, a sacrifice that’s not mine this time,
because I’ve played it all before, and I—
I’ve got nothing left, because this love
is war—at its worst?  At its best?
It doesn’t matter; either way, the truth’s still bloody.
 
I might as well be a ghost
for all that you’ve failed to see—
I loved you, baby.  I’ve loved you
and lost you so many times; I lost count.
And now?  Just count me out,
‘cause I can’t keep losing
if there’s nothing real to gain.