I don't tell the truth.
(I'm allergic to it)
I come out in a rash and can't stop crying.
I'm doubtful, but I think you might have something to do with the cracked feeling.
And you had the damned nerve to call me scared.
We can't both be terrified, or we'll get no where.
Or maybe no where is exactly where I want to be.
Just so long as you're there too.
What would I do without you?
Life would be grey, instead of black with blood flecks.
And that is my favourite colour.
The only difference is, I want to get over it.
And I want to be coerced and persuaded.
Whereas your quite content,
hiding above my eye level.
So you can avoid having to look at me,
when I cause you too much disgust and pain.
And when I remind you of what you're missing elsewhere.
We are more Austen,
Or even Bronte,
Charlotte, not Emily.
Shirley, not Jane Eyre.
We are more imperfection,
Than (any chance of) happiness.
This is not love.
This is just a Rhetorical Question,
but even the rhetorical ones have answers, buried deep underneath.
So reason with me,
(If you love me.)