Please, excuse this vernacular term of I love you.
I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or whatever
I don't mean to make you question every memory
But I mean this feeling is outdated
These lonely nights are like a song on repeat
A song I know every lyric to
You are the unforgettable melody to this tragedy
The beat to my recollection of every mistaken erection
The harmony to a blurry reflection of mistaken identity
Because excuse me, I'm not her.
Please, excuse the vernacular of mental intimacy
I'm not the one you should think about intimately
You undress me with your mind
Restricting me in this twisted fantasy
But we're not even dating in reality
Please, excuse the vernacular of narcissism
The way no one is good enough to please you but you
So I guess you don't need me for an orgasm
And no that wasn't sarcasm
Your touch must feel better on you than mine.
Please, excuse the vernacular of love
Because you use it to describe her constantly
Like she's the sun that your feelings orbit
While my feelings orbit you like the moon
Feelings opposite but so synchronous
Please, excuse the vernacular of lust
You can type a college level essay of what you would do to me
But my personality is "pessimistic" not sexually explicit enough for your intimacy
You act as though loving me is a fool's errand
When it's actually as easy to respect as it is to drink a caprisun
Please, excuse my mistaken definition of us
It was me who confused our condition
Because if I had you at my disposition
You would've never allowed me to cry all four oceans
You would've never drowned me in the tears you caused to fall
To inflict these wounds upon my skin
You would've cared.
But maybe caring isn't a word you know the definition to.
