doomsday

eleven: dirty little secret

all I'll ever be is your dirty, little secret.

these are the words that echo to me at 3AM in the lonely darkness, shaky gasps for air barely enough to stop the aching all over my body.

it is like the label is destined for me. or maybe, it is my self-fulfilling prophecy.

the only thing I know is that to believe you would make me more of a fool than I have already proven myself to be.

because, really.

what kind of desperately naïve person wouldn't realise that you've only ever wanted a bed warmer?

that your way of reeling me in was to paint my fantasies out before me so that you'd be too hard to resist?

that you never meant it when you said you loved me?

well, me.

I'm the kind of desperately naïve person who accepts her place as the girl living in your phone; whose heart you can toss around whilst being assured it still remains yours.

and she'll never leave you, you know. you don't even have to remind yourself of it because you know it's a given.

you can lead her on, play with her feelings, tell her she'll have to wait another year until she can even think about having you.

but it's okay, isn't it?

she's not going to tell anyone. God forbid she be a whistle-blower.

so, you make art with the elaborate lies you decorate her mind with.

I love you, you tell her. I won't ever leave you, you indoctrinate her with. you've always got me, you repeat.

but baby, I can make art, too.

it's dripping down my wrist but it's still pretty. and baby, it's all for you.

I don't know how many times I have to pretend like smelling good is all I have to offer.

or how many times I have to go to bed wondering how much longer I have to be in love with an idea of us.

but I get it, don't I? you've only told me a million times how the decision has never been yours.

it's the law, honey. it's my parents, babe.

of course. I believe you.

because, I'm your dirty, little secret.

and that's all I'll ever be.