The Real You.

You asked me out, I said yes excitedly.
The first 2 weeks were great, but then I found out how you are;

I had my feelings for you still,
But it just isn't right for me to be like this anymore, to take this anymore.

We walk around, holding hands like it's nothing.
You enjoy your fame, but let me tell you; you are not that great.
You think your big shit, because we go out and everyone likes you for your title.

But no one knows the real you.
If they did, then they wouldn't necessarily like you anymore.

I see the needle, almost every night and it goes into your skin.
The liquid substance, it vanishes, as if your veins are a vacuum.

You get angry, it's a side effect, I know.
But you get out of control.

You put your hands on me, it hurts
But all I do is sit there, because I can't do anything.

Because I know, that you can kill me if you wanted to,
You wouldn't even have to try that hard.

I'm scared of you, terrified actually, I quiver when we are alone.
When people talk about how great you are, I can’t take it. I tune it out.

It gets harder every day. To talk, see, or even touch you.
I try to get away from you, when it happens; when you break.

I hide, but you find me so easily.
So your fame, your title, it isn't that damn great.

I see how everyone likes you, cherishes you, and treats you like a king.
But no one, NO ONE but me knows the real you, the true you.

It's a monster.
You apologize every single time it happens.

Because you can’t remember what just happened,
I'm afraid to tell anyone, even you.