She wants to see him strive in glorious fashion, a primal sentiment that's in fact just a school girl's hormones being pumped grossly into her brain. She thinks it's love. I know she was taught it as such.
She gauges their distance every time she learns something new of him. I don't need to look to know how far, I don't even need to know how far.
She shakes in excitement upon seeing him. I laugh at her. It's less embarrassing that way.
She tucks her head in. I scream for her not to be such a victim.
She talks a little louder. I'll let her know she shouldn't have, over and over.
She's already planning the future. I'm left struggling with the present.
She's dreaming of things she doesn't grasp. I cry thinking she'll have to open her eyes.
She looks in the mirror and judges minutely. I wait for her to love me.
She says she does. She doesn't, really. I guess there's no more space for me.
Love me. You need to, more than that nobody you're nobody for.
You know me, more than that nobody who you can't make into somebody.
I'll give you love. Give yourself some love. Love me.
