Proof

I know what you're thinking I can see it in your eyes

They emphasize your sighs and patronize my lies

The thing is I know the truth of the matter, the proof I bestow upon you to shatter. The chatter won't matter now, I've got a free pass. Served up on a platter to batter the past.

I can blame it on the rain. I can make my claim and stain this story to fit my name.

I can take every single drop left of bitter and empty it into this hole of dirt and seal it up with concrete hands while tight lips finally smirk at the rarity of it all.

The absurdity.

I know it wasn't always the tumor but from now on, it was always the tumor.

Each shot he took with hands that shook with hands that steadied once his brain didn't work.

Stronger hands, weaker minds, stronger shots that plot this crime of passion in which he did not do time.

Proof; now you see it?

Proof that validates every claim I had, aloof to the blame and all of the shame and as the truth is untied and the blind eyes become wise to my proof and I realize that it all seems obtuse. Like a story to read; a fictional sleuth.

In a bind, by betrayal designed to play back memories that aren't mine. I blame myself so much that this proof isn't the truth but made up by my mind that has stockholm syndrome or has been brainwashed by a past that won't stay behind.

My believability without proof isn't as high as I assumed so my believability now is just a facade of necessity because you all owe me.

So you can sigh and roll your eyes but this time you can't deny me my life back. Because this time I have your proof so you have to believe me,

when it happens again.