It’s like I wanted you to love me because you were the least likely to, so it was safe to want you because it would never happen. And now you love me and I cannot take back the words I do not mean but which keep slipping off my tongue every time you say I love you.

I love you I love you I love you.

Each a different lie spoken by deceiving tongues. The more you say it the less it means. The more time I spend with you the more I cherish being alone.
I do not want your love nor your hands nor your smiles and happiness or eternal preoccupation with how much you perceive everyone either wants you or to be you.
You are sad and strange and closed off, but now so cracked open wide that I can feel nothing but contempt. Like the still homeless sat with defeat painted on their faces, it is far too easy to want to kick something which is already down than muddy your hand trying to pick it up.

I do not want you, I am afraid. I want the safety of impossibility; you have become far too willing.