When I am happy,
I think about loss.
It never leaves me,
even when I ask politely,
because I don’t know how to function,
without fucking things up for myself.
I’m the kind of girl who wants things too much,
and I told him that,
right from the start (well, the second time we met),
because I wanted him to know,
that while it would get intense,
he would never be left wondering,
if I wanted him (it’s always very obvious),
because I want things too much,
and I want him too much,
like he says I do,
because I’ve been taught not to trust anybody,
but I can’t help giving myself to somebody,
when the right somebody comes along,
and unfortunately for him,
When I dream about him,
he says my name,
with this hushed tone,
like it is a secret,
that belongs to him,
and I think I’m projecting,
because that’s how I want him to feel,
seeing secrets that I’m not sure exist,
his glamorous seductress of exotic descent,
pouring over her neural pathways,
trying to make connections and concoctions,
his Mary Margaret Ray,
waiting by the phone,
for signs and symbols of his true devotion.
Is it real?
I want to know,
but the person I trust the least is myself,
so how would I ever know?
It feels real,
when I wake up beside him,
watching his face,
happy to see mine,
too tired to play a role,
and when his lips draw lines along my body.
I am schizophrenic in my seduction,
shape shifting into the things I think he desires,
because I was never able to accept that I was enough,
because I want him too much,
and I want him to want me.