What's wrong with you?
The question that never seems to leave a conversation that I have with him.
As you try to pluck every last nerve I have for you like a school girl plucking a flower when she's in love, I notice my love for you could never change.
And that's my fault, loving someone who does all wrong but feels so right by the end of the night
Letting ever mark you put on my face justify your way of "loving me"
Even letting you convince me that sharing my heaven with your demons was "love"
It makes me cringe to know my love has come down to this but I would rather die than have you feel like I'm not loving you
So you will ask again "what's wrong with me?"
And my response would be ever so silent.... all over the bathroom floor
