She wants imperfect?
Then I'm perfect for her,
Can't cover it up,
too late now
I'm her style of beauty; just her style
I know I'm just a faint memory,
shoved to the back of her mind
it hurts to be awake,
to remember the field we ran through
I ran past later holding back more than I could handle,
choking each word out breath by breath
I tattooed my eyes with her memory,
can't cover it up
drowning her out with little blue pills.
Honestly, can she believe they really work?
That's because I'm her mermaid
and the little blue pills dry me out.
She is the pestilence tearing me down,
filled with clandestine followers,
and a kiss on the playground.