Your Choice

I hope you’ll love my flaws…

or at least give it a try. I’ve broken other hearts and I may break yours as well. I often give people glances, smiles, and intentionally lead them to believe that somewhere in the world, there could possibly be a place for us…but as I lay in bed, I know that it will never happen. Yet, I keep smiling and continue to intrigue them because it is lonelier when you don’t feel wanted at all. There is nothing in my heart that is proud of it but I’d be lying if I said it was not a guilty pleasure of mine. It’s an extraordinary thing to tweak certain aspects of loneliness and love…for the sake of tricking myself into being content without a steady soul next to me.

And if you ever want to love me, understand that I’m a shitload and a half of aggravating and frustrating work. Know that the stories of my past have bruised me and sometimes that’s okay. The definition of what you mean to me will not be altered by it but you must also not let them define me.

I don’t expect you to fix me, neither do I want you to save me.

Just listen. Listen to me when it’s the last thing you want to do. But if by any chance I begin to love you as my other half, don’t love me back as just a friend. I don’t need a soul that will just listen and hold my hand, but also someone who will throw me on the bed and devour my body with lips that are only indebted to me.

Know that at some point or another, I may unintentionally push you away. I may selfishly want my time back…to make tea, to read a book, or to simply day dream. Know that I think a lot, sometimes it won’t even be about you. I may lose myself and my thoughts to the world – to authors that have discovered love, to musicians that tell stories in three verses and a beat, and to the small world I’ve created under my blankets and pillows. Accept me after I drift away for days.. sometimes I just want to be left alone and there is nothing wrong with wanting to stir my own coffee on nights that I want to write.

Believe me and in me. Know that my body has not reached many souls and that my hands have rarely touched other bodies. You will not break down the fortress to my anatomy, before you break the walls into my heart. I am an artwork of complications but I can promise you that I will be worth it.

And if I love you, understand that in my mind I have written books about the way you walk and how you smile. I am a writer of many things, of many people, but mostly of you.

…whoever you are.

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