Obsession

I can’t help but wonder what he thinks. How he feels. Does he notice me? Do I mean anything to him or am I just some slut? No. I won’t be. I refuse to be. No matter how bad I want him I will not be that for him. I will not swallow my pride and do whatever it takes to get his attention. I’m better than that. I have more self-confidence than that and I don’t NEED him. But I do want him. I want him more than I want to breathe. It’s a disease; an overwhelming sickness; an obsession. Just thinking about him now I feel my cheeks warm and my stomach is filled with cliché little butterflies that tickle my insides. I want to know the way his lips feel. I want to know every curve of his body like it was my own. I want every part of him.

This poem is about: 
Me

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