I’m a flirt.
Repeated offence.
Due to my own desperate insecurity I flirt with boys I don’t fancy.
I love to be loved.
I love the attention of it.
I need to constantly be told that I’m attractive. I want to be asked out in a flush of embarrassed pride. I need my ego stroked.
I get my necessary daily exercise off of this chase.
I want only the idea of you.
When I inevitably give a confused answer to your emotions either our friendship is already flushed or I’m perched panting on the toilet still.
****, get a plunger I want back what we had before. Oops. Lactic acid flows.
Now washing my hands I don’t know if I consider the flirtees seedlings of feeling.
Do I just want them drooling and gasping for air?
I content myself selfishly assuming they are happy getting to fancy me.
But what about when I throw them into competition with their brother?
Have a won the race?
Is it a straight stairway to heaven?
What then rationalising wannabe Mother Theresa?
Till now I hadn’t quite recorded how each lap brings a tiresome blow to my emotional intelligence.
Obsessed with the thrill of the chase
I put myself in a cat-mouse roller coaster trap that ultimately reflects badly on me and my exhausted lungs.