You're driving me a bit mad.
I have a hard time reading you, a harder time keeping up.
I don't understand your moods sometimes. I want to know what causes them to shift.
Is it something someone said? Did your day go badly? Do you even want to talk?
I want to ask you how you are and I want to give you that look I give people to let them know they can tell me their secrets, but I can't let on that I care...
It's best if you take my care as curiosity; it's okay if you take my care as courtesy.
I don't want you to reflect my own, I want to see you.
But you don't know me; you're not comfortable.
And you don't allow me to interpret your care for curiosity or courtesy; you don't bother to ask me how I am in the first place.
That's okay though. I'm not sure I want to tell you.
I'm afraid I annoy you, or that I am so transparent you can see the nerve endings in my body flame a bit when you give me your attention.
I pretend to be unaffected by your presence, but I know when you walk into the room.
I throw you a flippant greeting and pretend to be much too invested in the conversation I am having about the pros and cons of living in the rainiest part of the US.
You are flippant with your greetings too - if you greet me at all. But you don't have to pretend I don't think.
I wish we could talk. Really talk. But I don't think you will ever Really speak to me.
I'm sixteen.
And you are mauve.
