I (although sometimes I might hurt you, rather deliberately,

and hate myself for it afterwards –  And, although you

did leave me that one time without explaining what it was

I had done to upset you so. And though I feel sometimes

maybe it’s all a dream, or a washed up fantasy – that

it’s not even real at all, but just something

I made up to keep myself from feeling empty and boring and

pathetic, and maybe I really did hope that your stares meant

that I was pretty, and not that you despised me somehow.        You

see, I can’t go on through my twenties without having loved,

so sometimes I think I  cling to you because I know you love      me,

Though sometimes I think it is a not-so-nice love, Maybe it isn’t

love, only lust, and you confused yourself too. I don’t know if

I can trust my brain when I say to myself I Miss You. I don’t

know whether I really do want to see you looking At me again or

whether I don’t. I don’t want to Be reliant on that, On people

liking me, but, you know how it is)

love you.


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