metaphorical boy as my nom de plume

The odds of being in a plane crash are of 1 in 187,439.
      The odds of being a castaway are much lower, and yet here
   we are, defying all odds because you wanted
                       to visit your family on Christmas and we had to catch a last-minute plane.
         Now you all know why it can be good to fight over whose parents' house to go on Holidays.
 Except it isn't when a day later you're stuck
                     in a desert island in a completely non-romantic scenario
            and you're at it again, screaming and throwing rocks instead of
                          house supplies at each other.

Home is where you can argue with your lover.

 Our problem is not surviving, it never was. We can both manage
            to lit a little bonfire, thanks to your obsession with
those survival Discovery programs that I always said would never help.
                   Oh, the irony.
                The problem is that there's no way this won't have after-effects,
      and they make dying look like a lovely alternative.

Well, this situation is starting to look like our normal life.

    It's late but I'm not tired, neither are you, but you're putting up that
                                                    same old boring show,
      so you can avoid the awkward talks and the heartbreaking gazes,
          because at this point none of us wants to admit defeat
                           but none of us really won.

  It's always like this with you, I know the protocol by heart,
              I can make you smile but you are never happy,
         and say hurtful things but you never raise your voice.
                              I'll I end up killing myself just to get a reaction out of you.

 I should have known better.

    You believe anything that can't be done with hands,
                 can be done with teeth,
                     and I'm just waiting for you to
                                              bite my head off.
         To take revenge on me for holding onto hope,
                            when you abandoned it while the oxygen masks were falling
                                                                            and the plane was crashing
                                                                            and the people were dying.

Hope is a sinking ship and I have to abandon it, I am no captain.

   I feel like a shell, and you could pick me up
         listen to the sounds of the city,
     the music I sing all day long,
    dreams I had and never shared,
   a way out of here.
                Oh, you'll never pick me up,
                     and I'll be forever in the sea,
                         forever buried in sand.