Remember These Feelings.

Raccoon

I'm worried about you. I've told you this.
You scare me, you worry me.
You fill me with adrenaline.

I'm worried about me with you.

I feel like I'm ignoring so many red flags and I can't even tell you why.

Or perhaps I can.
Perhaps it's because...

I'm falling.

I don't want to look at you with rose coloured glasses.
I don't want to get hurt.
But there's also something so tantalising about the prospect of getting my heart so completely and utterly shattered.

I am a masochist.

You are a sadist.

In the back of my mind, I think, we could work.

I hate that but Melanie called me Harley.

You make me feel crazy. Is that the plan. Thing is. I've been like this before. I never remember because it's such a short phase. I want to forget everything I've learnt about you. I want to start fresh.

The prospect of ruining your life is also very alluring to me, I have to admit.

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am just your type.

You scare me.
You play mind games and admit to it.
You admitted you could change a person's personality.
You've admitted you want to make me a mini you.

I'm an adrenaline junkie and I'm high off the danger that seems to be associated with you.

Your "friends" call you a pyschopath.
A womaniser.
And... potentially worse.

What is wrong with me?

Every test I've given you so far, you've passed...
Or I've ignored the signs.

But I have seen the signs.
I've seen the signs and chosen to look past them.

I tell myself it's because I don't have concrete proof.

Maybe that's true.

So give me some.

Give me proof.

Give me a reason.

Please, I beg of you.

Men are trash and I'm your raccoon.

Jan 12.