i like to pretend that you didn't mean as much to me as you did. but deep down, i know the truth. when i write, it's about you. i may lie to myself and say it isn't, but it always is. it's always been about you.
deep inside of me stirs a love that is deranged and sick. if i had a choice, i would love you to the point of suffocation. but would you still love me? could you still love me, despite everything?