You hurt me and I still love you. I guess that makes me the fool.
I just wish you didn’t have to go and do me the way everyone before you did—
the way you told me not to worry.
I wish your love had been real the way you said it was. And I wish I’d’ve been worth it to you—the way everyone else is.
I’m tired of being a joke. Tired of getting played. Tired of coming last, or ever in second place.
You were so real to me
and so was your love
that I must have been what was imaginary.
Because it couldn’t have been you, it couldn’t have been your love. I refuse to believe that you led me on and did me like that, after how wonderful you were to me. What was the lie? Your love? Or you leaving me? Maybe I’m the lie.
Maybe I’m not even real.
Because our love had to be.