what can I do? you are still asking things from me, but listen: I am a wreck in about a gazillion ways that you do not want to know about, that you never wanted to know about. I know that I "can be" in love with you, but you don't even know me well enough to know how impossible that would be. I guess i'm kind of mad at you for your arrogance, the idea that you know me better than I know myself. Listen: nobody knows me better than myself. And nobody knows what's good for me better than myself.
I love you. You are covered in stars for me. Still, where ever I was with you, I am miles from there now. We took incredibly good care of each other. You were (and still are) my complete source of security in this scary, insane world. But I want to run around, too! I want to do things, see things, too. I can. Don't forget that. I know it would be wrong of me to call you up when I need help and support. I'm waiting for you to meet and make love to someone who shows you what a bitch I am. How bad I am for you. I always wanted to feel the edges of things. I always got that with you. You, of course, already know this about me. You already seem to know everything about me. But it's real. It's accurate and palpable, not theoretical. This is who I am.
I don't think there's any shame in identifying with a line in a song. Sometimes, it's absolutely true. And that's who I want to be. I can't stand the bullshit. Not from you, not from anyone. You can stand my bullshit or anyone else's, either. I so love that about you. Madly. I refuse to play at love anymore. It always starts out real and then there's all that shit people end up worrying about that suck the life out of everything. I try not to be like that. Not with you.
Nothing exhausts me more than people talking about their flaws. Which is all, it seems, anyone wants to talk about. But I don't care! I think everyone should just suck it up and do their best. Happiness is something worth working for in a million tiny ways. I don't worry about being a failure, particularly. I just work my ass off and hope for the best. And when that's impossible because of some basic problem in my genetic make-up, I don't complain about it. I just lie around and read or cry or whatever. Maybe I'm lacking compassion. My existence is simple. If the sun rises in the morning, I don't have an excuse not to get out of bed. I would settle for living to love you, even if you didn't love me back in "that way."
I just want you to be happy. I do. I really want you to be happy. But how can anyone love as long as they continue to limit themselves? I mean this as much about myself as I mean this about you. it's too shameful. And is anyone who is a success ever in love? What a mystery!
I know this sounds mean, at least it does in my head. But I want you to show you me, me in all my horrible fierce meanness, eye teeth showing, the ugly, mean asshole at the bottom of everything. And anyway, it's nothing you haven't seen before. One day, I will no longer be so fucked up that I have to be this mean. With you, I could rest, but now there are a hundred fires everywhere and my hackles are up all the time.
I love you, I love you, I love you. Hate me if you have to.