You really do occupy my mind,
stuck with thinking about if you'd like my dress, my hair
while you probably don't even care.
You just stare.
Are they big enough?
You ask me how I dare.
I'm perfect.
Lovely.
Precisely enough.
But why do I have to lie about your love?
Or love, I don't know.
Passion.
Friendship.
Fuck.
You confuse me a lot.