You told me that you loved me
the first day, but you tell me now
like it’s some sort of secret
that you’re embarrassed to
tell your friends.

It’s almost like I’m under this band-aid
made up of words.

If there was ever a way for me
to jump in front of everyone else
who loves you like I do,
some way for me to rise above all of that,
I’m telling you I would;
I’m just too similar to all of them.

They all feel the same bland feelings
but mine for you are different, and better.
The way I look is no different, which is why
I might just be another pleading face.

I’d feel like a shameless hypocrite,
almost as guilty as you feel
when you tell the others how you’re
“not interested.”

They get some perverted pleasure
out of staring up at you on your balcony;
it pains me to know that
I’m the only one
who really thinks that you’re beautiful.
And I think that’s why
I might pose some sort of threat.