the moment you asked me to change, i knew that i couldn't.
i can't change the way i fiddle with my hair constantly or the way i bite the inside of my lip when i'm concentrating. i can't change the way i speak far too much and also too little. i can't change the way my clothes cling to the parts of my body that they shouldn't. i can't change the way i over analyse everything or the way i laugh. i can't change the way i fall for people who spin a tale with adjectives and a happily ever after. i can't change the way i'm constantly nervous and jumpy and always wondering whether you notice me. i can't change the way i read other people's words like they're going out of style. i can't change the way i have too many questions and not nearly enough answers. i can't change the way i don't sleep because i'm too busy pondering the great workings of the universe.
i can't change me any more than i can change the direction of gale force winds simply by blowing into the air. i can't change the way i loved you and i can't change the way that all of that wasn't enough.