“Iris” is my favorite song—this song will always do.

And when I told you that you’re my Iris, you looked confused too.

But I know you’ll never love me like I did, or said I’ll love you.

My love for you blinded me so badly, I was happy to be used.

“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand,”

I told you that afternoon, but I wasn’t reciting from the song, but from my heart.

I liked the flutter of the remorse I called butterflies.

And I acted tough, pushed you away, even when my life was falling apart.

But it stings—it stings to the bone—that the love I had for you, only you,

Is something you refuse to acknowledge or realize.

And I turned numbers into a common bond.

I excelled with digits just to get close to you, to make you more fond.

And I still do it—I pull myself through equations and ask myself why I got that result,

Like I asked myself what’s wrong with me, or why you never loved me…