You're the thorn in every flower that's pretty.
You're the harsh words that are hidden between every joke.
People make me feel down, by mentioning you.
I don't like you, or I pretend to.
Why do you hate me? What did I do?
I never did anything intentionally, other than pleasing you.
You're my savior, my protector, and my first and only love, or you're supposed to be. Why aren't we friends?
Why can't we at least get along?
I don't understand you, but I understand your hate for me, or I try to.
I want to talk to you, to tell you about my friends, every single one of them, tell you about my crush, how hot he is, how if he wasn't your friend, I would've banged him ages ago.
I want to tell you about my enemies, about the girl who keeps throwing nasty comments my way, want you to talk to her, to tell me what to do, a witty comment to say, or at least give an ear that listens.
I want to tell you about my insecurities, my problems, my hair that is in need of keratin.
I want to tell you everything, and I want you to understand.
I want you to tell me everything, and I want to understand.
But baby, that's not gonna happen.
I just need to stop loving you.
