I'm very used to taking up too much space.

Used to feeling dirty.

Used to being an inconvenience. 

Used to my belongings meaning less. 

My time is less valuable. 

My decisions are always the wrong ones. 

Used to being irresponsible.

Used to being the thing you compare yourself to feel better. 

Complain about me. 

Hate me.

Leave me in a cloud of animosity.

I was born in a half empty glass, 

And was fed self loathing on a plastic spoon.

No damage you could possibly do could put a nail in my coffin. 

It was chained shut long ago. 

I was cradled in danger,

And baits with disgust. 

I'm used to being the person you can look at to feel better. 

Not because I do something to make you feel that way. 

Because I am pointless enough,

Inconvenient enough, 

Worthless enough, 

Bad enough to compare yourself to. 

And I’ll give you something to complain about. 

Keeping myself in this box makes you feel good, right?

Well, then I guess I'll just stay right here. 

It’s nice to keep the peace in my coffin

Because it's so much easier to feel like crap

Then tell you you're wrong.

The cobwebs are nice. 

And I've learned to sleep uncomfortably long ago. 

Everything I have is an issue.

Everything I love is a problem.

Everything I am is a perfect predicament to fuel your anger. 

I hope I make you feel better. 

I hope the cedar doesn't creak as I turn in my sleep. 

And, God, I hope that the changes don't bang together in the wind. 

I hope that I am silent enough to tolerate. 

But, horrible enough of a comparison to make you feel alive.