I die a little bit inside,
every time your delicate lips broach about her.

Yours,
only best friend.

I die a little bit inside,
every time your scarlet lips broach about him.

Yours,
only best friend.

Seeing her bald seemed pretty fascinating,
While he wondered if anyone would ever look that beautiful without hair.

Ever felt as if, some people are good
just over the phone?

She, as a writer,
was never liked by them.
Little did they know,
they couldn't limit the rain.
And she was a Hurricane.

I have seen it coming.
I have felt me drowning,
slowly, and then all at once,
I don't like it here, you know.
It's different,
maybe I knew it was gonna be.

I talked to them.
No, it doesn't get better.
Every time I try, it gets worse.
Maybe I don't talk like them,
maybe I don't want to.
I don't like it here.

They don't get me.
Well, no one tries to.
And it's utterly fine,
I like it that way.
I'm that socially awkward damsel, who is mostly seen under the covers of her John Green-book.
They do talk to me about those notes from class
and once it's arranged,
they are nowhere to be seen around me.
But, remember?
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen me losing myself,
piece by piece, word by word.
I have been trying to reach the bright smoke of expectations that hovers around my head.
And for the hating love of reading,
I still manage to slip through the pages of that fiction novel,
at least once a day.
I don't like it here.

I have seen it coming.
I have seen old mark sheets of the dead,
I have seen those good grades fade.
I have seen me,
dead.
I haven't risen up from the dead,
I am trying to.
But,
I don't like it here.

No, this time it didn't hurt me much,
maybe I am used to it, now.

Maybe I have had enough of us.
Maybe the fact that you're not there, doesn't bother me anymore.
Maybe I became more independent this time.
Maybe this time I knew where each of the pieces goes.
Maybe I don't expect from you anymore.
Maybe I grew up a little bit.
Maybe this time, there's no jack to my Jill.
Maybe this time, Jill knows how to fetch some water, all by herself.
Maybe this time, I want more from life.
Maybe this time, you just stick to the white-ruled pages of my diary.
Maybe this time, the whispers around streets aren't about you and me.
Maybe you don't lie close to me anymore.
Maybe, those peals of laughter are now replaced by the smell of coffee and battered laptop screens.
Maybe, my hands don't search for you in darkness, anymore.
Maybe, my eyes don't search for you in our favorite hangout places, anymore.
Maybe, my lips don't mumble your name while sleeping, anymore.
Maybe this time, I finally get that you don't care about me, you never really did.