Words are a bit dangerous, aren’t they?
When you read something really personal, you relate to it. You imagine yourself there. So what happens when I write about you? Do you realise? Do you imagine yourself as I’m imagining you?
If you insert yourself into my fantasies about you, then that’s not really my fault, is it? You’re just fucking (with) my mind.
And I know you’re avoiding me, and I …actually don’t know why. Why would you run from this?
Let me explain: there are two ways this can go. One where I write a love story, and one where I give up on you forever. And I can do either. It’s up to you. But it’s my kind of love; it’s feverish phone calls and secret messages in letters and running away for the day. It doesn’t last, because it can’t. That kind of love devours itself.
Do you realise how seriously I take everything? When you leave me alone I stand crying in my kitchen telling myself I was stupid for liking someone like you anyway.
Because, just think…
Of course you can love more than one person at once. It’s not the same love, admittedly: the kind of girl who makes you happy below the belt is never going to be the kind of girl who hangs up your clothes.
Calm down a little and imagine how good this could be. You’re not going to forget me now, and if you’re already losing sleep over me then you’re already too far gone because I have burned pathways in your mind.
It’ll burn out, either way. It always does.