When I met you, I was merely an average girl who used her pen to scribble the words that couldn't ever leave her lips.
I hid behind slanted handwriting and poorly structured sentences, rusty metaphors and my pathetic namelessness. I could paint snow-frosted trees and lakes that reflected and distorted your face without even touching a single paintbrush, and make people's hearts feel as alive as if they were ten.
But you didn't fall in love with me, not in the sense I wanted you to.

And so began my obsession with you. I hated you and wrote about how your eyes were bloodshot and how your smile was slanted and how you made my heart physically hurt. I loved you and wrote about your body perfectly slotting into mine. I made you my muse, and created dozens of metaphors and made up various words; to try to describe how you made me scared and nervous and warm and fuzzy.
I hated how I loved you and loved how I  couldn't hate you.

Months later, I'm still smitten over you, unable to get over your sad smiles and witty comments, so I beg you, just let me have a chance to show you how together we could be king and queen of the endless words I can create with my pen, how we could wear upside down crowns and dance along to the beat of my half-broken heart.