(no subject)
Your words are like water, smooth and never-ending, and you go on and on. You sound nonchalant about it, occasionally adding a laugh or two here and there. And then,
"I'm sorry."
But in the truest of the core of your soul, you and I both know that you don't mean it. Perhaps you're just saying it to ease your guilt, and I hate you for that. I hate that you have to apologize and you try to sound earnest, like you actually mean it.
But you don't.
Then we change topics.
It's good to think about something other than your ambiguous apology, shifting my thoughts somewhere where it can't escape. And suddenly, I find myself telling you things that I'm not supposed to tell anyone, and why I did that I'll never know.
Most importantly, I can't tell you that you're my inspiration, that you give me a little more to write for. And that you actually mean something to me. Because if truth breaks out, I don't know what to fear anymore.
"I'm sorry."
But in the truest of the core of your soul, you and I both know that you don't mean it. Perhaps you're just saying it to ease your guilt, and I hate you for that. I hate that you have to apologize and you try to sound earnest, like you actually mean it.
But you don't.
Then we change topics.
It's good to think about something other than your ambiguous apology, shifting my thoughts somewhere where it can't escape. And suddenly, I find myself telling you things that I'm not supposed to tell anyone, and why I did that I'll never know.
Most importantly, I can't tell you that you're my inspiration, that you give me a little more to write for. And that you actually mean something to me. Because if truth breaks out, I don't know what to fear anymore.