I feel nothing when I press my lips against yours or with the last ten guys before.
There are no butterflies or skipped heartbeats, just me slipping quietly out of tangled sheets. Every emotion I've expressed is a lie, even those pathetically faked *** sighs.
How can you be so blind to my emptiness inside?
Perhaps I hide my detachment too well, I'm slightly sociopathic can't you tell?
It disgusts me how I feel absolutely nothing, but I can't force myself to feel anything.
So I'll crawl back in bed and cuddle up, wondering when you'll realize I'm a total **** up.
Apparently not tonight, as I rest my head on your chest and squeeze you tight.

No, I'll still let you believe in a world without empty people like me, who are twisted enough to feign the emotion of love.