mostly, i write about love. always, i think of love. i hunt it, root it out, examine and dissect until it's unrecognizable.
why? i guess the default pop-psych answer would be that i can't believe i am loveable. it must be a trick, an illusion. really? maybe so.
can my loves remember when we did love? i almost can't. i can think of specific times when we were definitely happy and laughing, or maybe crying and holding, but i can't feel those moments anymore.
usually, i decide the love isn't love. i'm sick, or you're sick, or this is just plain wrong. i hide behind these labels because it's easier than ...
easier than what? revealing my rotten core? disappointing you? actively hurting you?
sure, i seem great at first. funny, friendly, warm. maybe attractive. intelligent in some undefinable way -- at least, i don't see the practical application.
get just a little closer. i am afraid. i worry. i don't bring in the mail, or pay my rent even though i have the money. i telepathically tell my dog everyday that we'll have fun again sometime soon, just not today, please.
accept those things, fine. take another leap. i need you. i hate you. i want you all over, around, and inside me, but then you need to get the fuck out. i don't trust you. you're the only one i can turn to. you're the first man to ever understand me. i cry.
i am proof that love at first sight is bullshit.
No comments:
Post a Comment