Chewing at my conscience,
delighting that part of my mind that likes to lightly sabotage,
just to see that little thrill fulfilled, that little split second triumph (of conquest or validation? - both?)
Desire, of someone probably not even fully real, I know you in hints, scraps collected and interpreted during true moments in between our two amateur performances.
I painted you in my head,
I got to know you in my daydreams,
I don’t even know the half of you.
And always so insulted by your judgement of me - how dare you believe my act, how could you think I was cool and collected.
No matter how good you say my kisses were, you couldn’t read a thing in them (or you did, you knew and was as scared as I was).
Unfair of me, as I only wanted to know you in those closed off times too.
But darling - how well I know the role you were supposed to play, the one you so perfectly circled, never fully adhered to.
Ah, I too kept you within a lopsided circle around me, but you’re better at it, more practise. We lied from the start, never recovered.
And now even though I’m someone else’s, these toxic daydreams, just a glimpse of that innocent grin and I’m back to all my old longings for a second.
Before I remind myself (again again, repeat again) that he might be less thrilling, but more real.
I think you’re beautiful, your faults dramatic but remind me of my own, and that’s what made me want you more, you know.
Desire, yes, but those strong arms needed hugging more than me, which is why my heart will always have a door dangerously ajar for you.