the unspoken shift
Is this the part where I start to feel devastated that stolen glances don't show enough love behind your eyes the way you used to look at me?
Not that you ever loved me. You wanted me, which somehow seemed close enough.
This is where I'm most comfortable, cursing you under my breath, condemning you for the inevitable, glorifying the unbridgeable distance between us and how sad, sad, sad it makes me feel, because my emotions will never surface and be communicated, because I could never express the way that my need is tempered by my disgust and how I make concessions for you because I'm not whole, I don't know how this works.
I need you to give me the world before I could give you an inch. I need you to bleed for me before I could let myself feel the sting. I need you to be indifferent to other prospects, easy, easy-going girls who see you as a cheap challenge, who place nothing real on the line. How could you not see you're nothing to them?
In my head, I justify my moodiness and impenetrability and the sky high barriers I impose because the reward of my pure love demands it. But is it love if it's calculatingly withheld? Is the promise of love still love? Is it love when the other has to risk first?
I stopped having fun. How could I be upset over what you never promised, over what I never showed?
I want you to brutally reject me. At least then I could be embarrassed enough by something real, and not hurt over something your actions haven't justified.
Not that you ever loved me. You wanted me, which somehow seemed close enough.
This is where I'm most comfortable, cursing you under my breath, condemning you for the inevitable, glorifying the unbridgeable distance between us and how sad, sad, sad it makes me feel, because my emotions will never surface and be communicated, because I could never express the way that my need is tempered by my disgust and how I make concessions for you because I'm not whole, I don't know how this works.
I need you to give me the world before I could give you an inch. I need you to bleed for me before I could let myself feel the sting. I need you to be indifferent to other prospects, easy, easy-going girls who see you as a cheap challenge, who place nothing real on the line. How could you not see you're nothing to them?
In my head, I justify my moodiness and impenetrability and the sky high barriers I impose because the reward of my pure love demands it. But is it love if it's calculatingly withheld? Is the promise of love still love? Is it love when the other has to risk first?
I stopped having fun. How could I be upset over what you never promised, over what I never showed?
I want you to brutally reject me. At least then I could be embarrassed enough by something real, and not hurt over something your actions haven't justified.