I think you disgust me
(most likely)
because I do not wish to enjoy you.
I chastise myself and my poor judgement
every time you cause that dreaded ***** smile on my lips.
And yet
it continues.
I think you instigate my anxiety
because your manners and unnecessary attentiveness
make my stomach squirm
in a most grotesque way
and I feel that I do not deserve such respect from such a sweet soul.
Oh, if I could,
I would hate you.
I would say terrible things to others,
but it'd be all lies
because you are all anyone could ever desire ,
a tragic example of how every male should behave.
I feel so inadequate, so vulnerable,
so terribly close and alone with you
that I must shove a barrier between us
and lust for a boy
who's as distant and hurtful
as me.

So you think I'm cool, huh?
Witty.
Lovely.
What gives you the right to form those opinions?
Who are you to enjoy my presence?
If you really knew my desires,
my thoughts,
you'd know I'd rather be left alone.
Actually,
I'd rather be mauled by rabid tigers
than see the appreciation on your face
or to hear you laugh at my words.
They are not for you,
none of it is.
You can be mine
if you wish,
but I can never be yours;
I would cease to be myself.
I'd be smothered and sweaty,
and really,
I just want to drive as far away in the opposite direction
windows down
hair slicing my face
until you no longer exist.

Today
when your fingers were almost grazing my thigh,
and you were leaned in,
and I could hear your passion in my ear....
when your eyes emitted blatant tension to my pleasure receptors
and I could only breathe to keep from losing consciousness,
all I could think of
is how restrictive clothing is,
and how your skin would feel otherwise.

Why, hell-oh Mr.Insecurity.
You look so attractive today,
much better than myself.
Your omniscient grip around my larynx is comforting,
you know,
comforting in the way that a tumor won't abandon you;
like a frenemy, a parasite,
feeding off of your good ideas and healthy tissues.

I love you
Mrs. Unknown Future.
Your surprises are so comical,
like a whimsical double homicide
and I am a mere rubber-necking piece of evidence
in your routine.

Dreary little Lonely comes along
stealing all the fun we weren't having.
Why must one be so selfish
with that which does not exist?
Not in spirit, nor in form,
not even in feeling or sound.
Just robbing one of the possibility of a maybe idea.
What if I wanted love?
Or a moment with the warmth of a grandma's homemade cookie.

You all rob me of the concepts I can not comprehend,
because i can not feel.
That is only a wish,
a lie,
because I do feel, too much,
but can not figure out
how to make you all leave me  a sane homosapien.

We sit
and chat
and my heart feels like an excited baby bird
grasping at regurgitated worm carcus.
We walk
your arm hairs graze my own follicles;
my belly oozes all kinds of warm lovely juices.
Is this love?
Inexperience?
Or am I resisting your prying affection?
You are much too nice
to be seen with the likes of me.