Writing. 

Now before everyone buys a plane ticket over here, I promise I am fine and this piece of writing has nothing to do with anything that correlates with anything in my life, it’s just some writing. Haha. Let me know what you think, was a perfect afternoon to write something. 

  

I can tell you anything to make you believe that I love you. 

But I shouldn’t have to. I should be able to tell you that I love the idea of you, I love what we can do together. I love your kindness, your selflessness, how you think. 

But I don’t love you. 

I don’t even really like you. 

I can tell you that you’re special. But you’re nothing really. That’s okay. I can tell you whatever you like to make you believe whatever you want to believe. I can pretend. Pretend I’m real. But I’m not. 

For your momentary lapse in judgement is my gain. It’s selfish, I know. But I can make you believe whatever you want to believe is real. I can make you hurt by being honest, but by making you believe that you were really something special, I can have the upper hand, I control how you think. 

********************************

In a strange way, this was all okay. She was afraid to love anyway.

It scared her. 

She was the type to like things that are concrete, like the ocean. Something that you could point to and know exactly what it was. 
That is why she struggled with love. She couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t hold onto it and make sure that it never changed. 

Maybe that’s why it was all so perfect; the memories are poison in her veins and we feel so empty, because we leave parts of ourselves in everything we think that we love. 

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