Never showed me what I was waiting for so I didn’t wait either. I didn’t work this hard so you could have someone like me. No one has me.
We all like me, and who likes you? Those ones like your idea but they don’t know you. They like less the more they have; I like less the more I know, and these girls are plastic nails on soft wood.
You’re nothing but a book. Where’s reality? Where do I enter?
You run through me like virginity is nothing for you to give me, and I would take nothing from you again for the price of being your next novel, so I stop you from acting as if you know me.
To love and be loved is singular, not inclusive with the person. Could you blame me for being upset? I gave everything except how much you didn’t, ‘cause you deserve as much love as you give.
I thought you knew me best, but I have a bit of me that I can still see, and you can’t when it doesn’t show you. You’re still watching your reflection in the window. That’s how I know I’m still me without you: you can’t watch me leave, so I let you go first.
You wish I could decanter to your level, grainy like those old films you like, but that’s not me. I made them all fall in love like I’m a star, and I’ll do it again for you because you’re dusty.
Your actor’s mask is real.