They taught me that hyperbole was extra exaggeration
like, I've broken your bed frame half a million times;
you'll make me feel so right
time we're tangled up, tight, with my eyes closed and my lips parted.
Your drug abuse is hyperbole: extra shots and
then extra lines of cocaine
(I swore I would never touch a boy like that again, never)
but I suppose my drinking is, too, hyperbole: so many shots that I've got bruises
as bad as bullet-wounds. You touch me like the moon eclipses the sun
and all the lights are
off. You kiss me like I'm the last girl on earth and I shiver, tense,
our bodies explode like fireworks.
See, I learned that hyperbole was extra exaggeration,
but I know that every time we're sweating, stuck together like superglue,
it's just as good as a supernova. I can admit though:
we're probably alcoholics.
You would say that's exaggerating—but you take half a million shots
and I fall down and break your bed frame
just as many times.