I was willing to change for you, you know.
And I thought I've loved people before you,
they always say the first hurts the worst, so I thought it was over.
The pain, you know.
Not all of it, but the most intense of it. The puppy love.
I realise now, no. Those people were nothing compared to you.
I didn't love them.
I can barely remember their faces, their names, their zodiac.
I know yours.
I can't imagine a world or a time or a life where I forget,
where I don't know.
You know exactly where I make tally marks on my skin counting the days that pass.
You know everythng about me,
why did I let you in?
Why did I let you get that close?
And, the funny thing is,
I knew this was going to happen.
I knew you were going to lose interest, and I knew there was no point in loving you,
but in true Benz fashion, here I am.
Here we are.
You know, just go ahead.
Because I know what you're doing.
Every time you see me happy without you, if just for a moment,
you come back.
You say you need me, or you flirt with me, draw me back in and think I have a chance. And I believe you.
Because why wouldn't I?
I come back, and once you've had your share of being wanted, you go back to chasing girls who will never love you for anything more than your curly hair and potent weed.
You know that, right?
There's a reason I never sucked your dick at that party.
I could have, but I didn't,
even when you begged like a little boy.
I didn't because I wanted to show that I was different.
I wasn't using you for your body, and you meant more to me than that.
I mean, eventually, maybe,
but never that soon.
And, I'll admit it, I was scared.
I never thought I would feel safe around a man again,
and although you really aren't a man yet, I trusted you.
Do I still? I don't even know.
But I do know that you are a manipulative boy who doesn't know how to love himself and cannot love me how I deserve.
But, the question is:
do I care?
Because your manipulation is like candy puppet strings.
I know what you're doing, but I follow along because I love you that much.
I don't even know why I love you, that's the frustrating thing.
I cannot fathom why I care so much about this boy who only wants me half the time.
It's exhausting pretending like I can flip my emotions on and off,
be your girl one day and have long talks in your car, going nowhere,
and listen the next day as we sit three feet away from each other as you talk about this girl you wish would notice you.
Don't you see?
I should be enough.
Why am I not enough?
What do they have that I don't, you know?
Do I need to lose more weight? Get better grades? Buy better clothes?
Have deeper conversations? Because I have tried all of that, just for you.
I have changed for you.
But you haven't even noticed.
I have lost myself in this art project.
Where I try to make myself perfect, just how you want me,
and you are the other instalation without even knowing it.
I don't even know who I really am, anymore, because I've been trying so hard to be this perfect person for you but it's not my idea of perfection and if that isn't the most unhealthy thing I've ever heard in my life, I don't know what is. But it's true. I don't even know who I am without trying to be who you want me to be.
Forward, moving on,
back, wrapped around your finger.
It's awful, the knowlege that I could get so many other people so...
but the *one* person I want more than anyone in the entire world.
The one person who I care about.
The one person who I trust.
I can't have them.
Is that the white princess in me coming out?
I don't know. It's hard for me to see this as a privilege when all I can think about is what I can't have.
Please, don't take this as a guilt trip.
I have just been exhausted by holding all this in.
It is't really your fault, but still, do you know what you're doing to me?
Do you know how many times in a day I want to text you?
If I had a penny every time I thought of you, I'd be able to buy your love,
and, as you know, love is priceless.
I know that cursing is the mark of a lazy mind, so I'm not going to,
but trust me when I say that I've never wanted to more.
Because, I love you.
I love you more than a million poems published under a nickname and with a fake email.
Do you realise that?
I don't think you do.
When someone tries to be exactly your idea of perfection,
you must see exactly how much you mean to them.
I thought I was done with this pain,
but I can see now it hasn't even begun.