I believe in love.
Or I started to recently.
I haven't had the chance to tell you yet.
Now I might not get to.

I think I love you.
As much as I know of love.
I haven't had the chance to tell you yet.
Now I might not get to.

I'm so sorry.
I knew I would hurt you, but I didn't mean to.
I told you.
I just don't think you heard me.

Please forgive me.
I can change.

To the boy who crosses the brickyard with sorrow on your face,
Come cry with me.
To the girl who crosses the brickyard sassily tossing your hair,
Come strut with me.
To the guys who cross the brickyard arguing,
Come debate with me.
To the professor who crosses the brickyard worrying,
Come share your troubles with me.
To anyone who crosses the brickyard wearing sunglasses when it is cloudy,
Come hide with me.

Come fill me with your emotions, your troubles, your cares.
I am just an empty shell, waiting to be filled by those around me.

Let me live vicariously.

For a moment I was Cruella DeVille.
****
         Sultry
                    Sophisticated.
This time is wasn't your scent that lingered
In my hair,
                  on my clothes,
                                          on my breath.
I left it there.
I want you to notice,
                                   to comment,
                                                        ­ to realize
that you have no power over me.
Not now.
You can, but you won't.
Not now.
Perhaps later when your bitterness doesn't envelop me,
Like now.
At least this cigar isn't bitter.
In fact, it's sweet.

I give you piece after piece
But they aren't pieces of my heart.
The more you take, the more we grow apart
But the sad part is that you don't even realize,
That the pieces, though they once were alive
                                                                                                   are dead.
Slowly I'm becoming just a shell,
And although I know you only mean well,
I'm now just a shadow of myself.
I want to me, and I want to be yours,
But it seems I don't know how to be both anymore.
I'll give you myself in time,
and though you may initially think everything is fine,
I hope one day you'll realize I'm gone.
I hope you wonder when everything went wrong.

The sad part is, I won't even know what to tell you.

I cried, but I didn't understand why, so I laid there for awhile in thought.
As I became one with darkness, I realized:
I feel inadequate.

I am smart.
You are smarter.
I am strong.
You are stronger.
I am stubborn.
You are stubborner.
(Not that I'd ever tell you to your face.
I've got to keep up appearances you know.)
I'm genuine.
But you are moreso.

So when I told you that I think I love you,
my feeling of inadequacy grew.
I don't want you to admit to feelings that are untrue,
but I wish you could decide if you love me too.

I can't tell you any of this.
You'll draw back inside yourself.
So I'll continue to hide it.

I hope I don't shrivel up and die.

People like to bother me because I am short.
They don't realize that though my physique may be small,
I'm short when I'm angry.
There is no use for flowery, flowing phrases.
I say what I mean, or at least what I mean for the moment.
I hope to hurt you, but only for a second.
I don't realize words are stoves,
                                                          though you touch them briefly, they leave burns.
Don't burn me.