ᵐ ⁱ ˢ ˢ ᵉ ᵈ ᶜ ᵃ ˡ ˡ •

ᶜ •

i'd convinced myself it was love,
or at the very least there was a possibility of such.
the chance that maybe one day,
you would look at me and see something more than you did;
the fiction that one day you would look at me and see more than just another girl of which he could waste away the night with.

there had been many before you,
all of which had compared me to the finest art.
never had i taken their words as truth, lived their syllables as a parable;
never had i wanted the words to leave someone's lips with such a hateful desire as i did when i wished you'd call me beautiful.

oh, what i would do to sleep in your arms tonight.