When we remove the flowery, decorative adjectives,
In every love songs we listen to,
There we’ll find that every lines the world gives,
It says the same thing,
Over and over again,
Like thunder whispering upon our ears,
“Love me,”
“Why can’t it be me?”
“I love you,”
“Do you feel the same way, too?”
“Please,”
“Choose me.”
Desperate as it sounds,
The truth really may punch you through your guts,
Seeping through your veins,
Letting the blood drip,
From your broken heart,
I want you to know you don’t have to do that.
You don’t have to plead,
On your knees,
Your palms down,
No, not like that,
Put your head up and say,
“It has always been me.”