You bait me, feed me words to break, so I might break you. I won’t, I can’t. Not because it will hurt you or because I don’t notice, but because I’m afraid the petty words are true. Five thousand instances to back them running through my head.
“Just like the others,” you say and look straight ahead at the apartments we’re parked in front of. It’s hot, stuffy, you’ve got the car shut off and you’re pushing buttons hoping one will work.
Marriage. Months ago you said “I look forward to seeing you all in white,” Or “I can’t wait to marry you.”
Is this what happened with the others? Am I anything special? Probably not, you’ve spilled the same speech about illusions to them as well. How many girls have you promised marriage? Forever? Being different?
Maybe I’m the only one, maybe I’m one of fifty. I’ll never know; I’ll keep loving you, and ignore your bait. I’m not hungry.