From the first time I saw you I thought you were cute.
Not like little boy cute
I’m talking about “Damn, your eyes, your brows, your mouth, your perfectly aligned teeth, the way you flip your hair as if you had a twitch, the way you sit with your legs extended right and left, your smile taking up three fourths of your face, your perfectly imperfect skin, the way you walk swaying each of your arms back and forth and back and forth.”
I thought “Damn all of that is so freaking cute.”
I became flirty and you followed right behind me like duckling to his mother
“I’ll see you later, don’t miss me too much.”
“Can you just fall in love with me already?”
“Aw that’s so cute, but not as cute as you.”
We’re dating now.
But what I expected from you wasn’t what I got.
The love wasn't there.
Affection wasn't there.
You kept me a secret, putting Victoria to shame.
Conversations were short and fast, almost like the way my heart was when I first met you.
But you were just. so. cute.
I ask for you to come over and I guess all you hear is “I’ll suck your dick.”
I tell you about my day and I ask about yours, and I guess all you hear is “I’ll give you a hand job.”
I tell you how much I like you and how great you are, but I guess all you think is “okay okay but can you send naked pics?”
I try to tell you how I feel, what I’ve been thinking lately, and you listen.
When you listen the beast that is my heart is finally tamed.
You reassure me that you like me. You tell me I’m pretty. You apologize. You tell me I’m pretty.
But I guess your words mean nothing when right after that you expect me to give you what you want.
And I do because, well, you told me what I wanted to hear. And you're just so cute.
Then the cycle repeats like a soundtrack caught on loop.
I thought things would be different with you.
I give my hand to yours to hold so I won’t stray away.
Instead you pull back as if girls still had coodies.
I grab your arm to pull you in so I can feel your warm skin against my cold flesh.
Instead you brush me off as if I was a speck of dust on your brand new tee that reads “She’s not my girlfriend.”
You don’t care what I do.
You don’t care who I talk to.
As long as you get what you want at the end of the day.
Other people call me beautiful.
They talk to me.
They bond with me.
They text me.
They do these things not because it will benefit them later on, they do it because they mean it.
They do everything you don’t do.
Not like you care.
But majority of the time I have to tell them to stop because I THINK I have a boyfriend, but I’m not sure.
But what I am sure of is, is that you’re so freakin’ cute.