I Shouldn’t Like You

I hate this part of me. Well aware of it, though. Logic should override biology. It can’t. I’m crazy about you, though I know you may not be good for me.

Why is this? Why do we want what we should not have? Is there some obscure silliness going on, and our minds don’t have access? “We want what we want.” But, why? Fuck! I don’t want someone who will raise my BP, and shorten my life. I’d rather live long and alone.

You woman. You motherfucker of a woman. You’re probably only slightly aware of your grip on me. I get the text. I know I should ignore it. I can’t. I respond. Then I wait. Of fucking course, I wait. What else would you make me do besides wait? It’s a control thing, maybe. Fine. You have control of me. Now what? Just have your way, then release me. PLEASE!

There’s some biological magnet that’s fucking with me. I’ll dig and dig, and leave nothing but scars. Why love someone who doesn’t return the favor? Or, is this how you love? Make me work for it. Make me invest enough to never leave.

Cruel.

All I want to do right now is squeeze you—fold myself into you. Get inside, and provide everything you need. What do you need? You don’t know, do you?

I can’t make you want me. I wouldn’t know if you did. Plus, if I come clean about my uncontrollable desire, it will spook you. Fucked. I’m fucked.

Screw it. I’ll stay here. I’m comfortable. Content. Sure, I’m missing out. I hate that. Damn. That’s OK. I can’t have it all. Why would I deserve to have you love me back? That’s not how it works. Learned that lesson well.

What if you do love me? What if I have this all wrong? Maybe you’re as scared as I am. Maybe you’ve felt it from that first glance like I did. Maybe you’re just waiting to make sure I’m there, was there, will be there. I am. I was. I will be if you let me.

Fuck.

This is why I drink. You don’t like that. Tough. It sedates me. I like sedation. Who doesn’t? Pain lessens, worries dissolve, and thoughts materialize. True, this isn’t the ideal place for my thoughts to manifest. Better that I simply pick up the phone next to me, tap, wait, and profess my true feelings. What’s the worst that could happen?

“That’s nice, Phil. You’re a good friend. Let’s keep that. Good night.”

Yeah, that would suck. Gin won’t cover that wound.

Woman, I’ll walk away. I’ll fight off my urges. But, I’m going to keep looking over my shoulder. Give me one glance—one tiny opening—and I will fly to you, heart on a platter. I love you, and you will know it before this is over.

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