clandestine.
Selfish girls never end up anywhere.
it's a shame, because I want the world.
Sweetheart, you've got a imaginative mind, and letting wander is making you sick.
This was never about revenge. This was never about falling in love. This was never about feeling alone, or suddenly, being aware that, somewhere, there's someone who feels just as lonely as you do. This is about clandestine feelings. This is about having a secret that everyone has knowledge of, but never really knows in the end. The ink smears against the pad of your thumb, that look angry, but are there so you remember of just how pretty your words could be. The way your hair falls, to keep that memory of how it felt under my palm. my skin shivered when your finger tips touched my collar bone.
This was never about revenge. This was never about the many times I've scribbled your name from my mind. This was never about curling up in my bed and knowing you weren't thinking about me when my mind was racing about you. This was about not having a point. This was about hating you because it seemed like the easier thing to do. This was about screaming out profanities, because nothing else tasted sweeter on my tongue. This was about wishing we had stayed enemies for the rest of our lives, just so I could have looked at your face and never would have known just how miserable you made me. This was about wondering just how satisfying it would be to pick the skin clean of your bones.
This was never about revenge.
This was about keeping a secret that you pine to know about.
it's a shame, because I want the world.
Sweetheart, you've got a imaginative mind, and letting wander is making you sick.
This was never about revenge. This was never about falling in love. This was never about feeling alone, or suddenly, being aware that, somewhere, there's someone who feels just as lonely as you do. This is about clandestine feelings. This is about having a secret that everyone has knowledge of, but never really knows in the end. The ink smears against the pad of your thumb, that look angry, but are there so you remember of just how pretty your words could be. The way your hair falls, to keep that memory of how it felt under my palm. my skin shivered when your finger tips touched my collar bone.
This was never about revenge. This was never about the many times I've scribbled your name from my mind. This was never about curling up in my bed and knowing you weren't thinking about me when my mind was racing about you. This was about not having a point. This was about hating you because it seemed like the easier thing to do. This was about screaming out profanities, because nothing else tasted sweeter on my tongue. This was about wishing we had stayed enemies for the rest of our lives, just so I could have looked at your face and never would have known just how miserable you made me. This was about wondering just how satisfying it would be to pick the skin clean of your bones.
This was never about revenge.
This was about keeping a secret that you pine to know about.