You are just a prop in her life, Cody.
You are there to help her work through things.

That's great; one problem.
I am not a dishrag.

I do not serve as a free form of therapy.
I am not just a service to help girls learn about themselves.

I have feelings.
I get attached.
I want reciprocation.
I want affection.

Sometimes I'm the one who needs help.
Sometimes I am not just satisfied with knowing I helped.

I am not your valet.
I am not your counselor.
I am not your validation on demand.

I cannot even fathom why you think can just take.
It's because I can't give, Cody.
If you can't give, why do you think it's ok to take?

I will not always be ok.
I won't always get over it.
I won't just understand why you can't be there for me.

I am not just a rock to be your stability.
I am not just a blanket to give you comfort.

I am not a flipping dishrag.

She bought herself flowers.
I wanted to cry.

She bought herself flowers.
I had to bite my tongue.

She bought herself flowers.
I had to remember that I can't.

She bought herself flowers.
I hoped he noticed.

She bought herself flowers.
I wished he would be inspired to change.

She bought herself flowers,
Looked at me,
And gave me a look that said that she knew
That they would be from me.

She bought herself flowers,
And my restraints fell away.

She bought herself flowers,
And I stopped wanting to play nice.

She bought herself flowers
Because she is dying inside.

She bought herself flowers
Because she cannot be mine.

I don't know what I thought I was going to find.
All I knew is that you wanted me to come and I wanted go.
So I went.

I see it, now.
You look this cute all the time.
It doesn't matter how chaotic your surroundings are;
You remain adorable, and I am in awe.

Your heart wants validation, is desperate for affection.
I could give it to you; and in a way, I do.
But it's not my role.
You have gravitated to me because I can meet your needs.

But I can't, fully.
I can be a reminder that you still have it;
That you are beautiful and intelligent and all-around amazing.
But that's what I am; a reminder.

It's a delicate tension you have,
Wanting for yourself and wishing that I had someone else.
We can't be what we never would admit we wanted;
And what we are now is complicated, at best.

I adore you. If I could, I would make sure you never forgot those words.
But I can't; it's not my role.

I will treasure this time and will be what you need me to be.
That isn't what either of us want, but it will be what we need.

Let's just get this out of the way:
I don't want to be with you.
You don't want to be with me.

Fine. Granted. No ambiguity there.

With that being said, know this:
I want you to want me.
Badly.

When you wake up in the morning,
I want you thinking of my words.
When you want to share a recollection,
It's me that I want you to text.
When you want comfort at night,
It's in my bed that I want you to wish you were.

There are many guys who want you.
That's not particularly special.
It's well deserved; you are beautiful and can charm like few others;
But I don't want to be one of them.

While I would be one of many if I was to want you,
You would not have much company if you were to like me.
That's not to say that I'm undesirable.
I'm just not out there as much as you are.

You would be a much rarer commodity,
And thus, more valuable.

That's how I justify it.

Bur really,
I just wish you longed for me like I do for you.
Even when it will never be.

I feel that spark.
That shared inquisitiveness.
That desire to see what might be together.

It wasn't always this way.
I felt what you did not.
You were ready for me, but I wasn't even there.

Now is the time.
It has to be.
It feels right.

We are finally mutual.
Our hearts are in the right place.
Our minds can't stop flowing.

Except...

We can't.
We shouldn't.
We won't.

That's easy to say.
But the heart doesn't just want to yield.

The time wasn't right then.
It's not right now.
Which *****, but that is the reality of time.

We don't get to choose.
How time passes is not up to us.
But some days, I wish it were.

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

I will admit that I struggle with what I can't give to you. It bugs me.  It eats me up inside.

I see the care and genuine respect that you show me and I want to react. But I can't.  Not in the way I want to do so.

Believe me. I want to do so much.  I want to make grand gestures, promise you the world,  and say the things that my heart hides.

To do so,  would please me, would stoke the embers of my soul.  

But. ..it would station your life,  and I won't do that.

Instead,  I am focused on what I can do. It is not as if I can't show what I feel,  to demonstrate it. I just have to be subtle.

I am,  not by choice,  but by need,  committed to the slow burn. I will leave you with hints;  with clues to piece together.  I will beat around the bush and show you the meaning of restraint.  Because THAT is what I can do.

Normally, at this hour of night, I'm fragile and emotional and yearning for reinforcement.

Tonight? No.t at. all.

Tonight, I'm on fire.

Tonight, I realize that I have what you want. Rather, I am what you want.

You may not be aware of it, you may be in denial. It doesn't matter. Because I know it.

I realize that I provide for you so much more than you give to me. I am a rock, a shield, and a dose of reality; all on demand!

I would say you are lucky to have what I provide, but it isn't luck. It's choice. A choice I make, daily. A choice that has little to do with you.

If you don't have need of me tonight, so be it. It's not my loss; it's yours.

Tonight, I know the truth. You need me. You may not want me. You may not be proud of the fact that it is so. You may wish I was hipper, hotter, or more adventurous. But it doesn't change the fact that you need me.

It's not the other way around. It could be. But you have to work at it.

I know the truth, and the truth has set me free,

Pain. It's what's on my mind this morning.

Not because I'm hurting. I'm not. Really, I'm not.

I am, instead, wanting to express my appreciation for pain.

Because, really, for a certain range of outcomes, pain is freakin' awesome.

Pain helps you establish limits. What better way to know when to stop than to have an emotionally or physically evocative reminder to do so?

Pain is a sign of loss. The loss of inhibitions. The loss of restraint. The loss of things that weighed you down. Loss, too, can be great.

Pain reminds you of the value of joy. What sweetness can we have in joy if there wasn't something to contrast?

I am through running from pain.

I no longer avoid; I embrace.

Bring on the pain, for only then can I know that I am living a life worth living.

Some days, I can't handle it.

I want to say things. Sweet things. Promises and pardons, compliments carefully crafted, and dreams shared without pause.

Other days, I want to say things of a different persuasion.

Inflammatory things.

Things to excite.

Commands and urges, excited utterances, explicit descriptions, and whispered secrets.

My job is to write, to craft speech, and my passion is how words are used.

Is it any surprise that words strain my limits, fighting to come out?

So, if you wonder why I didn't say what was on my heart, you can know it wasn't because I didn't have the desire.

Some words have consequences.

One day, I will accept those consequences as a necessary result of showing all of me.

Today is not that day.

I have lived most of my life believing that I was not desirable by those who I desired. It was easier that way.

Every so often, I would let myself believe otherwise.

Stupid, stupid me.

The reason why you build walls is to keep the nasty things out, to keep them where they can't hurt you.

You worked very hard to get me to lower my walls. I didn't even realize you were doing it until it was done.

I didn't realize it was a game to you, because it was not a game to me.

You made me feel worthy. You made me feel elite. You made me believe.

That's not really what you wanted. Like a dog chasing a car, you didn't know what to do with me once you caught me.

When you pulled back the curtain, I couldn't help but feel blind. It took time to regain my bearings.

I'd say I'm back to normal now, with one thing changed: I see the truth.
I may be worthy, but not in your eyes.

Your actions didn't hurt me; you kept your promise. Your inaction, on the other hand, eats me from within.

I am trying to be stronger; to not need others to feel what I want to feel. You, with your games, helped me with that.

I also learned a greater truth: it doesn't matter what they think. And for that, I thank you.

You know me.

Which, in and of itself, should not be surprising. I told you all my secrets. When I was at my worst, you yelled at me. When I was betrayed, you picked me up.

You know me.

Which, really, when I think about it, scares me. I can't hide from you. You already know what I am thinking. You even know why I am thinking it. Around you, I feel rather exposed.

You know me.

Yet, for some reason, I think you like what you see. That's what boggles my mind. You see much deeper within and still, you aren't recoiling. In fact, you are coming closer.

You know me.

I don't know what do with your affection. It's subtle, because I want it to be subtle. It's consistent, because I need it to be consistent. I don't know what it means, and that keeps me awake at night.

You know me.

And yet still, you come.