No one really thinks about it. It seems impossible, right? That something so tragically sweet and impossibly meaningful and astonishingly beautiful could ever be quite the opposite. That something that has survived the ages as something to revere, as something that was sacred for two to say would be such a death sentence. The words every girl wants to hear to know she's accepted, the words every boy (according to media) fears.
I love you.
Whatever it means to you could be something foreign to me, and you may find it weird when I tell you that for me I love you is nothing but trouble, because it means that whatever comes next can't be good. Protecting myself is my biggest priority because I really should be better at it, but I'm not. So I protect myself in every way I can, and if that's the only way I can, then so be it. But it means that my heart's going to be broken because I'm not naive, I know everything has an end and that I can be perfect for someone one minute then everything they never wanted the next, because that's who I am. I'm some sort of insanity, and a whirlwind, and the world around me can't sit still because that's just how I'm built.
Every compliment is something I can't live up to, so it's not what they think it is. Calling me beautiful doesn't make me feel as good now, because I'm a mess. And even if I hide it, I'm breaking down so calling me perfect is an insult. I put up that face, with the smile and the happy blue eyes, because it's better to be who I want to be and be happy for the moment I get than to have to suffer the constant inquiries about whether or not I'm okay. I'm fine if you ask, but not if you don't.
And I will lie to your face because I don't want to deal with it.
I thought it was fine, that I was good enough but I know I'm not. So if you could kindly step back and not get too involved? I'm not here for forever; I'm barely here at all. I don't mean to hurt you, but I'm not anything you say I am and I guess that that's my fault. You think so highly of me? Well look at me now, shattered on the ground and so far from getting up. Step back, I'll pick up the pieces. Run back to somewhere where you don't have to watch your step for the shards of my life that I miss.
Because I'm not perfect, and I know that, and I'm going to miss something. And that something will be something important, and I'll fall apart again. A vicious, never ending cycle, a cyclone, it'll pull you under like a tidal wave and I refuse. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.
But he bought me roses....
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