what if i came to a singing death match and fell in love with you and let you kill yourself so tenderly for me despite knowing the pain you would cause me all because i loved you so much that i was willing to bear the burden of knowing you did this because you couldn't imagine a world without me in it. what if i came to a singing death match and let you idolise me knowing that i was nothing close to the image you made of myself because i loved you too much to let you see the darkness creeping in. what if i came to a singing death match and pretended to not see you hide yourself from me. what if i came to a singing death match and loved you so much i refused to let myself imagine a world without you in it–without your love and openness. what if i practiced placing myself in the way of the gun. what if i held you close as you bled out. what if i was the observer and the trigger. what if i loved you even though none of us know what love really is. and we were both girls.
