me me me and you
Ever since I met you, I've started moisturising my body and thinking more about my pubic hair. I've never believed anyone who told me I was pretty. When you grow up not hearing you're beautiful, any compliments about your appearance after 18-21 are dismissed as insincerely polite or the mere recognition of an improvement from your awkward tween years. All that happened was I started to wear makeup. I think about the level of comfort and trust I'd need to feel towards you to let you see me first thing in the morning or last thing at night, and I'm not sure if we'll ever get there. I don't know if it's because of you or if it's because of me. I've been thinking about this idea of unhappy people being incapable of forming relationships and whether it's just a bullshit excuse or self-fulfilling prophecy. The ugly, hateful things I tell myself about you in an effort to lessen the blow to my ego should you ever reject me infinitely say more about me than you. I know we're incompatible and I know I'm getting ahead of myself and I know I'm fucking it up before it even begins and I know it won't last, but a huge, unspoken part of me doesn't want you to stop as much as my words and actions suggest the contrary. I don't know if I want you, or just the continued power to make up my mind.