he wants me to be more wild
exotic and a bit more beauitful,
and I did try, I did
but he was never satified
he looks at me, tears falling down
almost sad, almost real
I suck in a breath, my lungs
filled with the taste of you;
cheap colognone, salty ciggerett's,
he gives me that pleading look, but
I've grown immune to him (my drug)
I turn around and don't look back.
(finally, I'm free)
and these words, oh they're
and oh, you, you're such a tragedy
you look at me as if I'm a disease.
maybe I am.
it's been months since I left him
and like a movie, I play it through
in my head and wonder;
maybe he wasn't my disease,
my addiction, my drug.
maybe I was just holding onto him,
because he wouldn't let go of me.
maybe instead, I was his disease,
his addiction, his drug.
something that he had
never had the chance of having.
and in truth, he had never
had me. not for one second.