What are we? Are we?
Sleeping in sheets covered in our sweat. One same idea coming through our heads. One same feeling making our breath stop. One same fear that this might tear us apart. Body, mind, chems, breath, everything would join us, but our fear of death. Death of all the things we had already reached, and could be screwed up if we didn’t make it clear. Call it DTR, call it clear things up, call it confess something we couldn’t even stop. Being a friend with benefits is more of what I could ask, based on the fact that you couldn’t be more hot, confident, shining, dreamer, fighting for what he wants, and being such a good fucking person that you're what anyone would want. Sorry if I don’t feel jealous when you tell me about your ex, that don’t matter cause you’re here laying in my bed. Looking at me, kissing my neck, making me feel there’s nowhere you’d rather be instead. But don’t be stupid girl, love might sound very cool, but you’re just a pretty girl he likes hooking up to. You have...