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.