thoughts of the wounded.

Slightly drowning.

You blow me off, and I let you. I know it's my fault. But who's fault is it that I'm in love with you? I keep reminding myself not to cry, but I am overwhelmed with love and sadness. Both of which correlate, but you wouldn't know that. Because you don't want to love me. You and I are like when you know you shouldn't want something as much as you do, or at all. But you let yourself want it just a little bit because it makes you feel good and then rips you apart when no one's looking hard enough. Pick your poison, they say. But what about the poison that comes wrapped in eyes like the ocean, and in people who said they'd never hurt you? What about the poison you'd give up anything for because they once told you, you were everything they'd ever wanted at their fingertips? What about the poison that makes you want to sell your soul just to breathe them in for a minute or two? But.. what about the poison that comes in the form of a kiss or soft spoken words in the early hours of morning? Or in words that have been implied in the silence, and no, they don't tell you those silent words are the worst kind because what if - what if - what if you imagined them all? Where does that leave you? It leaves you drowning at three in the morning, trying to talk to someone who doesn't even like talking on the phone, and so how do you know those soft spoken words weren't just silent, polite pleas of wanting to sleep? You don't know at all. You don't know anything. Pick your poison, they say.