a slimmer of hope raised through an errant glance, word, or gesture sends you flying back at a reckless speed.
you sacrifice yourself for a moment of comfort. gamble a year for a chance of commitment.
delude your heart with a faulty brain’s sense of self control, while as usual, you’re slippin’. slippin’. slippin’.
i understand your love for him.
the desire to try again at the drop of a hat.
because he might at some point, maybe perhaps be ready to give you what you need.
help him realize the wonders of you because you gave your freakin’ all.
but the irony is that while you make your comparisons and voice your advice so strong about ty, an ant can stomp that all away.
and don’t think i haven’t noticed that those stringent streams of bubbling advice faded when called out and when he suddenly came back into the picture.
to say I’m disappointed is an understatement. to call me out is messed up. and to give me a speech about how we don’t hang and rush the end of breafast at 4am so you can run run run to see him? To deliver his fries? To share a bed with someone who’s made you shed so many more tears? Fucked up.
i always want the best for you, but I’m not sure i’m ready to pick you up yet again, when desire tells him to drop you.
