I don't like the way
you criticize
the Smiths, or your
gentleman callers,
or that I will never
be good enough, but I
don't mind the way you
look at me,
or the way butterflies
infest my stomach
and then my throat when
I try to speak to you.

I don't like the way
you skirt around the issue--
you beat around the bush,
but I'd rather
burn it down.

I don't like the way
you live right down
the street, as if we were
put here for a reason,
and I lie awake at
night, thinking of
you, talking to
you, knowing that
you might just be
listening to the same
breeze that I'm listening to.

I don't like the way
you might be using me,
manipulating me,
opening me up and looking
at my bare soul
like a roadmap, and then
you use it as a welcome
mat.

We hear the same trains
at night, we see the same
cars passing
by our houses, the same
leaves fall in our yards.

I've torn my heart out,
opened up my rib cage,
and let the blood
spill out, and now I've given
it to you.

You can do what you
wish with it--

but I would appreciate it
if you would lock it away
and throw away the key,
and please
please
please just don't step
on it.

My head swims with
confusion (so does yours,
but you're so afraid
of your emotions that
you can't bear to see it,
so you say)
and you make me feel
stupid.

So look at me again
and open your lips
again and speak to me,
that's all I need.

I'll try not to think
about you, while you
go off in your confusion,
and try to sort out your
emotions.

Fear is the heart
of love.

In the end,
you will accept the
love that you deserve,
and the only love
is mine.