THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
We stand outside a bar in Camden. You so want me to say it. Every day, you're getting closer, you're bating me. You ask me everything but what you're actually asking.
We're playing games with each other now. I don't say what you want me to say- you tell me stories about other girls to make me angry- I cut below the belt
I think our reservations about each other are the same now. It's getting just to be a constant push and pull. It's constant.
I absolutely adore you against my better judgement. You tease me easily. Nothing about it makes sense- except, as I've said, what it actually is. On paper, half of you is perfect, who you are, how you are. The other half is fucked up and irrational, you're a mess, we're a bad match.
Standing outside that bar, I had drunk enough to almost tell you. I thought about it. I almost did.
But I didn't, I kept quiet, I held back. And you knew that I did. You knew