I am not sure why I keep on picking roses even though I know they have thorns.
I hold onto matches too long, and kiss too many boys.
Because the truth is I can’t feel anything at all.
They say you’re most alive with a broken heart, but I was never one for irony.
I used to want to tell you everything and now I can only seem to talk about the weather.
I desperately want affection but I flinch at everyone’s attempt to get to know me.
I am scared that I will forget you, but I cut my hair so there was less of me you had touched.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
I am not sure why I keep on picking roses even though I know they have thorns.
I hold onto matches too long, and kiss too many boys.
Because the truth is I can’t feel anything at all.
They say you’re most alive with a broken heart, but I was never one for irony.
I used to want to tell you everything and now I can only seem to talk about the weather.
I desperately want affection but I flinch at everyone’s attempt to get to know me.
I am scared that I will forget you, but I cut my hair so there was less of me you had touched.
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