I'm never going to be able to love you enough. And I'll always know you deserve better. And no matter what. I will always belong more to myself than to anyone else.
Two.
I'm not even going to make you feel like I'm falling and it's beautiful. How can falling even be? It's called falling afterall. For a reason ,yea?
Three.
I'm going to take my time off you, more often than not. I'm going to crawl back into my shell and live in my vanity for a long time until I'm ready to get back to earth. You're going to be with me, and you're going to be lonely.
Four.
There's nothing you could do to sweep me off my feet. You'll never feel like a strong man who has the control over his woman's emotions when that woman is me.
Five.
You'll never be happy with me. Look, I have hard times. A lot of them. Every now and then. And I can be mad at you for nothing at all and blame on you all my sorrow. I'm going to crib over my past, my present, my exs , everything. I'm going to sob and you'll have no idea how to calm me the fuck down. Because honey, I never gave anyone but myself the authority to.
Six.
I'm never going to surprise you. I'm going to treat my own self instead.
Seven.
I'm quick to fall in love. And when I am whipped, you won't even know. Nothing- my actions or words- would Ever show how there's a water tank inside of me and how each droplet sings of you. I'll write to you a million love letters describing how perfect your smirks are, and how it literally had my heart when you knelt down, how it's amazing how you dress up each time we meet even though you know I would never dress up for anyone. Then I'll stack them up the cupboard and never open it again.
Eight.
I won't dress up. Not for you. Or for anyone else. You'd see me hanging in around you in my pyjamas and loose ice cream stained tee-shirts.
Nine.
I would steal your pens, your handkerchiefs and your tee shirts , at times. And mostly, I'd puff all your cigarettes and most nights you'd be out of them. And because I know you love your cigarettes a lot.
Ten.
And then, one fine day. You'd be up in my face screaming, 'Do you even love me?' And I'd pass on that little grin at you and you'd walk out of the room. Floor. House. Street. And then, you'll be gone. Leaving me with yet another piece of my heart broken by some perfection who deserved every bit of it.
Eleven.
Because then I'd be left with ache in the slight left of my chest and with those droplets from inside that tank in my heart coming straight through my eyes ruining my mascara and leaving me with more pain than cigarettes could heal.
And so, it's best to drop even the idea of dating me, dear. Let's just hangout.
No comments:
Post a Comment