Puppet strings and credit cards

They say they're different. They say they won't hurt you. We've heard it all before. Those pretty faces with the empty promises.

But some of their faces aren't pretty.

Watching from the sidelines and from the windows with the bullet holes.

The windows that were supposed to be bullet proof, that failed product testing, but somehow still ended up in your front room.

Different. 

Yeah.

Your parents kissed your forehead and handed you the keys to that brand new car and slid that loaded credit card across the counter. They might as well have handed you a loaded gun. They didn't know they were facilitating your addiction to drugs that you hid beneath your athleticism.

And for some reason I didn't see your bloodshot eyes either.

So naive.

And that night was supposed to be the start of something, not the end. I was supposed to mean more to you. You said I did. And I trusted you.

For some reason I get the feeling that I've never been a very good judge of character.

Different.

You connected all the strings and painted my face and oiled my joints so go ahead and make me dance, puppet-master. Just don't break me.

I don't think I can be fixed if I get broken one more time.

I swore I was stronger than this, but my stupid little heart keeps telling me to believe you when you say that you're different.

My stupid little heart fell for your shit, but I sure as hell won't.