• Weakening the strength inside the bones that hold me steady.
    Tightening the grip upon my heart.
    I never knew I’d get this far but here I am already.
    I guess I really was yours from the start.

    A masochist you call me, since I go against my own will.
    This bitter-sweet euphoria is here.
    My stomach turns, my heart it yearns a satisfying fill.
    But the pain subsides if only you are near.

    I consider myself a weakened heart, and in a love-sick poverty.
    This ache for you will only go away.
    If you donate a kiss, a touch, a hold, a fragment of your heart to me.
    Or at least a promise claiming that you’ll stay.

    These butterflies you cause might just well eat me alive.
    But I’d rather die deeply in love than feel like I’m deprived.