deepundergroundpoetry.com
Toxic
I like your shoes.
But not the way you sing the blues.
I like your eyes.
But not the way your lonely heart shy's.
I like your curly hair.
But can't remember the last time we could breathe the same air.
I like your clothes.
But not how many doubts have arose.
I miss your sound.
But in the darkness you still can't be found.
I miss your heart.
But you didn't have to rip me apart.
I miss your touch.
But I couldn't stay your crutch.
I miss your song.
But you didn't have to make me the one in the wrong.
I want your hands.
But I can't grip on to your demands.
I want your space.
But you can't give me time to admire your face.
I want your kiss.
But it scares me that might be the only thing I miss.
I want to hear you choke.
Because that would be sweeter than the way you spoke.
I hate your nose.
I can't help but think of the smell from that last rose.
I hate your cry.
I know you only use them to mask the lie.
I hate your teeth.
I hope they rot while you're laying beneath.
I hate your art.
Don't paint me and write about me like I wanted this to start.
I hate that I want to miss everything I like about you.
But not the way you sing the blues.
I like your eyes.
But not the way your lonely heart shy's.
I like your curly hair.
But can't remember the last time we could breathe the same air.
I like your clothes.
But not how many doubts have arose.
I miss your sound.
But in the darkness you still can't be found.
I miss your heart.
But you didn't have to rip me apart.
I miss your touch.
But I couldn't stay your crutch.
I miss your song.
But you didn't have to make me the one in the wrong.
I want your hands.
But I can't grip on to your demands.
I want your space.
But you can't give me time to admire your face.
I want your kiss.
But it scares me that might be the only thing I miss.
I want to hear you choke.
Because that would be sweeter than the way you spoke.
I hate your nose.
I can't help but think of the smell from that last rose.
I hate your cry.
I know you only use them to mask the lie.
I hate your teeth.
I hope they rot while you're laying beneath.
I hate your art.
Don't paint me and write about me like I wanted this to start.
I hate that I want to miss everything I like about you.
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