Give Me Love-- Harry Styles (Dirty)
All I want is the tastes that your lips allow,
My, my, my, my, my, my, Give me love. My, my, my, my, my, my, Give me love.
Give me love like never before.
I sit on my bed, staring straight at the creme-colored wall of my bedroom opposite of my bed. My eyes have lost the redness and puffiness from crying, the tears now long dried onto the flushed skin of my cheeks.
Every time I see his face flash across my mind, I take a swing of the odd yet effective combination of Vodka, beer, Whiskey, and Rum mixed together into the glass beer bottle. In the other hand, I hold what I think to be my eighth cigarette, and I’m gripping onto both objects as if they were the only things that were keeping me alive.
Come to think of it, they probably are. Every time I think of him, the heavy cloud of emotions that is suspended over me crashes down onto me, threatening to suffocate me under the ruthless, painful memory. The substance of alcohol I hold and a long drag from the nicotine seems to be the only thing that can fix it.
No. It does not fix it; it suspends it again.