I will fail you.
I will. It doesn't matter what I say or do in the meantime, just know that when it counts, I'll fail you.
You'll be bleeding, from the claws of vicious dogs, from a sharp knife slid into your back and I'll come running, I'll call your name, but in the end, I'll still fail you.
I just want you to know this. I want you to know so that you're not disappointed when I do. So that when the clock strikes midnight and all things are revealed, you won't look disappointed. Because we already knew, really. Cause I already told you.
I'll be disappointed, have no fear. I'll track down every way I know to save you, bring you back, make it right. Drown my guilt in the liquor of activity. And when that fails, drown my failure in blood blacker than sin.
But I want you to know that I'll fail you.
Just like I fail every other God-forsaken thing that I've ever cared about.
But that don't mean I won't try.
I don't really want to - knowing what I know: that fate and the bright morning stars are all lined up against me, prophesying our destruction. But how can I not? You expect me to just give up? Stand there and watch you bleed out, begging me with soft eyes and tears to help? No, I have to try. I have to run to you like you're the thing most precious (which maybe you are) and snatch you to me like I'm saving you from fire, even if it means I get burned, instead. Who cares about me - I'm going to fail anyway. So darn if I won't hold you tight and give you all I have trying to succeed.
I will fail you.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you go.