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Famous little butterflies once would beat
their dusty wings inside of me. I was
waiting for the break down, because we were
fragile. We were not magic, but science.
But it's okay, because we're still the same.
I'm still the girl who can't park her car right,
and you're the one I run to for fixing.
You walk for miles down the road to see
what help you could be. And I can breath then,
knowing it was for me. But now the air
is running out. I try to breath, but fail.
Your fingertips are on her sheets, screaming
your treachery. We don't need to speak. This
bottle tells me enough and these sad songs
cry my tears. So just believe that I am out
necking some new man in the back of a
badly lit bar, my hand on his knee in
a silent promise of entertainment.
You can imagine my eyes weeping for
your acts of adultery, but it's your
illusion. Its always been your lies. I
cry not for your lose, but all of mine.