Whenever I say,
baby you hurt me,
why does it turn
into world war three?
Why can i not say,
that I have been hurt,
with your behaviour,
with the makeup on your shirt?
How am i always called,
crazy, psychotic and mad,
When its always been you,
that makes me anxious and sad?
Who in the world,
truly knows and sees,
exactly who are,
the monster you can be?
Where is your love,
when you act hot and cold,
all those promises,
to be together and grow old?
What I wouldn’t do,
for you to just once be real,
admit it’s you not me,
so I could just start to heal.