I used to think that I loved you, when I really I just loved who I had become comfortable enough to be.
No more plucking petals,
The butterflies in my stomach gave a standing ovation just for me.
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And all these mediocre men
Made me complicit in their plight
Leaving me stitching up their wounds
While they devoured half my light
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Love, Ross Lynn.
The human brain is cunning, it acquires you to pain
It can get you used to anything, even not quite being sane
I’m used to feeling tired but not getting any sleep
I’m used to reaching thousands when I’m trying to count sheep
I’m used to leaving parties when anxiety attacks
I’m used to calling parents just to hear a voice speak back
After days of duvet cover, I’m used to tangling out my mane
And though I know I shouldn’t be, I’m kind of used to pain
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And God…it was heaven.
It was everything I’d never experienced before;
It was being seen,
It was being heard,
It was being loved.
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I’m the one you love a little less
Than the one you love the most
I’m the one who when you look at me
You’re thinking of her ghost
I’m the one who when you hear my laugh
You wish it was her tune
And I’m the one that, though I know you don’t
I wish you loved me too
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I dropped a can
On the bed where we lay lying,
Too frivolous in nature to keep our touch from dying
And swollen lips,
But none of them for me.
My stubbornness deters you from the place you ought to be.
I start to think that maybe we could make our shades in Purple:
If all combined could help us break this circle.
But in your eyes,
With their Green flecks,
The truth is all too clear:
You never will be simplified to shades in waves and tears.
So on this bed, I sit and keep our fingertips from grazing.
The scent of all my orange paint endearing but quite dazing
I smile to see you stand and leave,
I’m left with all but sorrow
I close my eyes and think about the wet sheets washed tomorrow.
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The truth lies not in him not loving me,
But in him loving her just a little bit more.