Can I help it, if I think you're beautiful?
If I love you, 
Must I spend my whole life being sorry?
When you smile, 
Something twists inside me.
Something fragile, so it ought to break
But doesn't.

Can I help it, if I think you're special?
If your name excites me,
Must I always try to hide it?
The cynic in me tries to squash it;
Dulls my voice, and makes me stiffen.
Makes my gaze seem hard.
But even from this prison, something in me's twisting.
I have learnt to let it happen.
Watch from within - and put up barriers
Melt inside,
And somehow still keep standing.

And the cynic in me's clapping.
Curtain call, but no-one throws me flowers.
Can I help it, if I need them?