The bitterness scorching my throat speaks for me at times when I rely on metaphors too much. I slur my way past the realisation and utterance of a simple enough desire. How difficult can it be, asking you to hold me when I try taking off into a realm of smoke? How difficult can it be, asking you to help me untangle my hair every morning? I slur my way past my confessions, love. I slur my way past your questioning looks. I slur my way past your grip because I don't want to feel it anymore. Feel you anymore. It hurts. How difficult can it be, telling you that I don't really like the bitterness in my throat now, but that I have no choice. The bitterness scorching my throat speaks for me at times when I rely on metaphors too much. I slur my way past the realisation and utterance of a simple enough desire. How difficult can it be, asking you to hold me when I try taking off into a realm of smoke? How difficult can it be, asking you to help me untangle my hair every morning? I slur my way past my confessions, love. I slur my way past your questioning looks. I slur my way past your grip because I don't want to feel it anymore. Feel you anymore.
