After I met him, he stole all my words-
he extracted them from my throat with his silver tongue
There wasn't a story I wrote that he hadn't left his tone on
they weren't mine anymore
It was only silk spun tales of the way he kissed me,
and left bruises that made me wish they were scars
Even if he was neither the antagonist or protagonist,
the lines were all about who I wasn't admitting I was thinking of
Whether at the movies or laying alone in the grass,
he was the star
Cause at night or even in broad daylight
there has only been one guarding and protecting
my imaginative and deprecating designs