I don't know what is truth and what is a myth.
It's difficult for me to comprehend the difference.
Because sometimes, the way you type out your words, it just comforts me knowing that perhaps...you only tell those things to me. Perhaps, you truly care for me as I do for you.
And I can tell when you're bullshitting, too. You stop speaking to me, you change the subject, you use sarcasm, you stop responding.
It makes me feel insignificant. Like you don't want me here. And I know I don't want me here either.
I don't like living. It's a disease. I just wait patiently for my time to come.
But you keep me here. Even if you don't love me anymore. Knowing you're still alive is good enough. I'm satisfied when you speak to me.
My face flushes, I lick my lips a lot, and gosh, I just want to kiss you and make you mine. Which should be the opposite. But I want your hands to trail down my back and clasp on my hips, and I want our foreheads to touch, and I want our breath to shake, I want the lump in my throat to be swallowed, because I want that intimacy with you.
I want you to be happy. Whether with me or not. I just wish you knew how I felt. And I feel stupid for coming down to the conclusion that I'm in love with you. I probably am! I don't fucking know! But this feeling...it isn't going away. I re-read our old messages, and my eyes sting, because you don't speak to me in that way any longer. I often wonder why .I miss you. I wish I was more appealing, and that you were always insignificant to other girls so that you would've perhaps stayed mine. I really miss you. I hate myself for how much I love you. I'm sorry. I wish you knew.
If only you knew.
