I despise myself, how much I love you. You hold my heart, and perhaps you already know it, though I suspect you don’t.
I love you, though I know we could never work out. I love you, though I know you’re worth so much more than me. I love you, though I’m ridiculous beyond repair.
I despise myself for this love because I’ve made my fantasy to become my reality. Reality, that cold blanket, but at least it’s a blanket. Fantasy, a cocoon of rainbow butterfly whispers, just as soft and just as worthless.
Yet here I go again, longing to feel the tug of your hand on mine. Perhaps a slap on my ass and your teeth raking my throat as well, if I’m honest. Which I rarely am with myself these days. Pathetic. Ridiculously pathetic.
I sigh every day, my chin resting on my palm, wishing I was Her. That one with whom you would spend the rest of your days with. Nah. Instead, I’m fairly positive I will live out my days in utter and absolute love, awash with flushed cheeks and wishful thinking.
Maybe tomorrow we won’t talk. Maybe tomorrow you’ll say you’ve had enough. I keep telling myself to walk away. Problem is: I’ve never met anyone like you before.
You’re special and unique. Gorgeous inside and out. Intelligent. Witty. Deep, deep, deep. No nonsense and drama-free. Sexy as hell. And most days I feel like you get me.
God damn, how I love the shit out of you. I want you in my life for the rest of my days. I don’t want to waste another day without you. I’m impractical and ridiculous, I know. But. I love you. And I despise myself for it.
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