It’s Bad Religion to know it’s your birthday and I won’t be celebrating it with you. To know I won’t be the one surprising you at midnight and spoiling you for the entire day even though you’re already spoiled enough.
It’s Bad Religion to wish the baby you’re carrying was mine. To have day dreams of rubbing your stomach with cocoa butter so you won’t get stretch marks. Of reading books you have no interest in because I read it makes children smarter.
Bad Religion is comparing every woman I meet to you. Her laugh isn’t as subtle as yours. Her sex drive isn’t as passionate as yours, her compassion and jealously doesn’t run hand in hand like yours.
It’s Bad Religion to love and hate you in the same sleepless night. To give you credit for bringing out words and ambition I didn’t know I had but also bringing out insecurity and jealousy that scares the hell out of me.
Bad Religion is knowing that if I ever want to be happy I have to let you go.