The hunt is always more enjoyable.
Like a dog chasing a car; if it stopped, the dumb creature would just stand there, clueless.
All direction lost.
You're my shiny new object of attention, my latest model of car.
But it's been too long and you haven't stopped.
Why won't you stop?!
The moment you start wanting me back is the very moment I stop wanting you at all.
But for now you pull the wool over my eyes so effortlessly, I can't help but be drawn in.
Two weeks tops: that's all it takes
for them to give in, for me to get bored.
But I'm not bored yet.
And you won't get out of my mind.
It's worrying, this persistence.
We have no future; I've made certain that this is a pointless, futile exercise.
And we have no past either.
We never transgressed boundaries, never pushed envelopes.
But the lack of a present is what claws at me like a nagging insect,
itching just underneath my skin.
The tension is tangible.
The electricity is in the air, the air which grows thick with unsaid words.
Unaired desire.
So we'll always make jokes.
Pretend there's nothing more.
While you want lust and I want...more.
No, I don't want you.
I just want you to want me.
And I want that so badly it's shattering my peace of mind,
pure agony to hear again and again:
"It's okay, babe. I'm still single. For the most part. Let's fuck."
It breaks me, while I let you use me:
I'll take anything in the hopes of getting more.
And while I effortlessly feign indifference to you,
because that's what I've been taught to do.
Anger and grief are no strangers to me.
But these are new degrees of intensity.
They try to hide behind the smudged kohl and the fake smile,
as I've trained them to do.
But this time they threaten to burst out,
I'm barely holding my face together.
Myself together.
And I'll dress pretty everyday,
because hope springs eternal.
But no matter how many clothes I buy,
you'll always picture me naked.
Nothing less, nothing more.
The chase is a drug.
But I'm too high to enjoy the trip.
Like a dog chasing a car; if it stopped, the dumb creature would just stand there, clueless.
All direction lost.
You're my shiny new object of attention, my latest model of car.
But it's been too long and you haven't stopped.
Why won't you stop?!
The moment you start wanting me back is the very moment I stop wanting you at all.
But for now you pull the wool over my eyes so effortlessly, I can't help but be drawn in.
Two weeks tops: that's all it takes
for them to give in, for me to get bored.
But I'm not bored yet.
And you won't get out of my mind.
It's worrying, this persistence.
We have no future; I've made certain that this is a pointless, futile exercise.
And we have no past either.
We never transgressed boundaries, never pushed envelopes.
But the lack of a present is what claws at me like a nagging insect,
itching just underneath my skin.
The tension is tangible.
The electricity is in the air, the air which grows thick with unsaid words.
Unaired desire.
So we'll always make jokes.
Pretend there's nothing more.
While you want lust and I want...more.
No, I don't want you.
I just want you to want me.
And I want that so badly it's shattering my peace of mind,
pure agony to hear again and again:
"It's okay, babe. I'm still single. For the most part. Let's fuck."
It breaks me, while I let you use me:
I'll take anything in the hopes of getting more.
And while I effortlessly feign indifference to you,
because that's what I've been taught to do.
Anger and grief are no strangers to me.
But these are new degrees of intensity.
They try to hide behind the smudged kohl and the fake smile,
as I've trained them to do.
But this time they threaten to burst out,
I'm barely holding my face together.
Myself together.
And I'll dress pretty everyday,
because hope springs eternal.
But no matter how many clothes I buy,
you'll always picture me naked.
Nothing less, nothing more.
The chase is a drug.
But I'm too high to enjoy the trip.