Conga

I need to tell you something.
I have this thing,
well, it's more like a curse.

Men fall in love with me.
Everyday.
Every second.

I'm constantly getting presents
pressed into my palms
and lips
pressed onto my face.

There's a conga line
of aching hearts
following me wherever I go.

It sounds nice,
but it makes everyday life

quite

difficult.