“I can’t read your mind,” you say,
as if it's a bad thing.
If you could read my mind,
you would no longer look at me
with those adoring eyes of yours.
You wouldn’t make me breakfast
or hold my hand
or call me beautiful.
You probably wouldn’t call me
at all.
And I wouldn’t blame you.
If you could read my mind,
you’d see the darkness,
the hatred.
My kindness,
my innocence,
my “adorable” exterior
are works of fiction.
My heart is bitter and cold.
I am not “kind,”
by any means.
I may love you,
but you’re one of few.
Just be thankful
that you can’t read my mind.