Sweet tooth silhouette, the apple of my ire.

sweet talk. just sweet talk

to never believe or trust.

just leave in the dust.

I swear on my grave.

i gave you one task.

not even all that sizable.

to, for awhile, not be recognizable.

"Not too much to ask" you claimed.

yet you couldn't make it one day.

showed up about as predictable.

as the sweet talk that you spew.

"of course I haven't forgotten hon.

It's true, I came here just for you."

i'm sure you tell that to all of them.

and the truth is that you actually do.

fed everyone of them that same Puddin'.

i should have trusted my taste buds when.

i knew i tasted proof. for a split second or two.

and even now, I’m still caught running back to you.
because
you’re still 
who my
bell tolls for,
the apple
of my
ire.