Mood: Confused.
Song: Playlist.
Once upon a time,
There were two girls that meant a lot to each other.
They held hands, cuddled, kissed, and so much more,
And it was sweet, innocent (to an extent, ha), but more importantly, it was beautiful.
They cared for one another more than most could imagine,
they fought sometimes, and it was understandable,
But they loved each other - that was clear to everyone that heard of them, saw them, or envied them.
Butterflies in her tummy,
One girl always had.
To the point she couldn't even breathe,
It was almost silly.
They layed close some nights,
Enjoying one another's body heat,
Making promises that wouldn't be fufilled.
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
Her words stabbed this girl with butterflies one afternoon.
"I don't think we even like each other."
It didn't make sense,
It didn't connect.
Did anything they do mean anything to this girl?
Anything like they did to the girl with the butterflies in her tummy?
She almost cried,
But she wouldn't succumb.
She fought it off,
They went to the gym,
Where they saw their friend.
A dance class,
Their friend was good,
Caught the other girl's eye.
She called their friend sexy, found her oh so appealing.
Devious, she was.
Cause she never mentioned this to the girl with butterflies trapped in her tummy.
But the butterflies told the girl,
Because they loved this girl,
They wanted her to always be happy.
And she was mad.
She asked, to be sure these weren't just rumors.
And surely enough, everything the butterflies said was true.
She questioned a lot about what the actions of her once held close other meant.
Did she ever care as much as she said she did?
It was quite debatable.
They fought more.
It wasn't safe.
But it was needed.
"What am I to you?"
"More than a friend.
My calm pill.
The one I need to see everyday.
The one I need alone time with."
It was debatable whether or not this was true,
but the girl with butterflies reached out,
"I miss you."
"Don't. you're with people."
"Doesn't mean I can't. Do you not miss me when you're with people."
"I always miss you."
Stab. Clash.
Swords fighting,
Heart and mind.
Connecting the dots has never been so hard for the girl.
Trapped in a sea of thoughts,
Of what these intentions may be,
The girl with her butterflies studies,
Slowly.
Unsure.
"Do you love me like I love you?"
A question, I'm afraid,
the girl with butterflies is fearful to ask.
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Missa Defunctorum
praise the lost souls, it'll set yours free
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