No more fantasies, dramas, romance, sci-fi, fiction… No more unintentional attraction. No more. I have enough stories.
I’m always the one everyone is unsure of. I’m always the one who gives a good time and show, but at the end of the day, I’m alone and unsure. You sweetly kiss me, but your embrace leaves me in questioning. “Hold on, I’ll be right back…” you never show. It was nice to have you over. It was nice to hold you over. It was nice. When will my “was” turn into an “is”? When will someone be sure of me? Because I am sure of one thing: I am sure of “ them” and their inability to be sure of me. I’m tired of crying—Of meshing and ripping and meshing and ripping and meshing until I don’t have anything to keep myself together.
Well… until next time.