I'm too new.
I'm too old.
I'm too much.
I'm not enough.
First course to my left, sloppy seconds to my right. I'm full on nothing.
Like the extra Lego in the box, I'm a puzzle piece that just doesn't fit. My curves are nice to look at, even nicer coming to your sexual rescue.
Don't cry: the more I cry, the more I lie.
Don't think: the more I think, the more I drink.
Tears from my thoughts salt the rim of my glass. (What round is this?)
Maybe I can slice away my pain; it's worked before, and I'm running out of options. I run so far so fast, a constant 360 into oblivion. I'm so tired, but it's never enough. I'm never far enough, never fast enough.
Love is the problem, Love is the solution, Love is the perpetual paradox. A crimson conundrum, painfully pleasant and coyly complicated.