Every electron in my body buzzes for want of you.

Your presence.
Your body.
Your attention.

And part of me wants to hurt you so that you chase after me in words, like you did for her.
And part of me wants to keep showering you with poetry in hopes that you'll reciprocate.
And part of me wants to stop doing sweet deeds, hoping you'll do something for me.

But part of me knows you won't.
And part of you knows you won't, you never will, because you don't love me like you did her.

If she was never nice to you, never a good girlfriend, never gave a fuck about you, why did she get all of your attention? Is that what I have to do? Be a complete bitch to you?

If you don't write me love poems, nobody on this Earth ever will.

I've told you but you pretend not to listen. You admitted you can't make me happy the way I want you to. And I salvaged it, told you you do make me happy in all these small ways.

But still, I'm so irreparably jealous that she got your romance.


Anonymous
04:12:00 PM
5/12/2009