She can't shake the feeling. It creeps up cloaked in stealth, sneaky
conscience rank on its breath. Without warning or announcement, she can
sense it and it won't go away. Only after it's made her a bumbling mess of
insecurity does it bother to hide. And then it kind of jumps in front of
her not surprising at all, but still with the same effect.
Fear. There's fear in her tone because she knows it won't last. Somehow, somewhere he'll figure out she's not worth as much as he thought she was. And he'll leave. And it will leave her broken, as she has been many times before. She thinks maybe it will hurt less this time, because she's done this over and over. Really though, she knows that it only hurts more. And will.
Self-deprecation. She chalks it up to a sense of humor and he doesn't buy it for a second. He gets anxious, irritated even when she says certain things with a laugh and the challenge of a raised eyebrow. He doesn't understand why she insists on saying stupid things; she can't explain that it's her only truth. So she doesn't and he chides her. But afterwards he comforts her and he holds her, and that part she likes. Even on the occasions where she doesn't believe what she's saying, she says it anyway because she knows he'll hold her.
Scars. He won't look deep enough and he won't ask. There's nothing on the surface because she's not foolish enough to make it public. But there are things and there are methods, and he knows her methods but he ignores them. He sees her as no one else does. Pure. And while that's beautiful, it's also nothing short of idealistic. Inherently, she's sure he finds a filthy comfort in her. When he's breathing her name against her neck or has her body pressed against his; when he says awful things about her and to her because it's the heat of the moment and that's what he thinks he's supposed to do. She mistakes that for honesty and knows that he's just another scar that won't fade.
Her eyes search his for some sign of doubt, some proof that he isn't in this for the same reasons. It would be easy to use her. She would probably let herself be used. They both know this. She would never ask questions and he would always take it for granted. But he doesn't and she can't figure out why. He always seems so damn sincere and it throws her. So while he thinks it's defining their relationship, his faith in her, she finds that it's killing it.
Jealousy is her only way out. She sees him with her best friend, having a real conversation she knows. Something that doesn't involve anything physical; something that has more to do with lips functioning as they're supposed to instead of a method of excuse. They talk and they're friends and that has roots. She herself has only lust to offer him, or so she thinks. She sells him her heart in the shape of her body, the only thing she's capable of giving. And when he receives it she prays that he doesn't think it's old or used or any of the things it really is. Although he probably does. Looking at them through glass windows, her heart is already tired. She tries to put on her game face, but she can't anymore.
He blows it off with ease, as she expected him to do so. He feeds her the opposites attract crap and the things he loves about her, which, as irony would have it, are the things she hates about herself. She doesn't believe him for a second but always wants to. And she reaches for her game face once more and gives into him, heart and mind and body and soul. Of all those things, her body is the only one that never hurts. That never really feels anything, and somehow that becomes her safety net.
She can't give him what he needs, what he will eventually want. She can't provide him with intellectual conversation or even interesting conversation, as much as she wants to. All of a sudden she figures out that she loves him, and loving him is her demise. He can't and won't ever love her, not really. Not in the same way. Sooner or later he'll realize that and he'll know what she knows.
He'll find himself feeling exactly what she does, and trying to brush it off just as she has.
Despite his kisses and his words and his looks.
She just can't shake the feeling that she's not good enough.
Fear. There's fear in her tone because she knows it won't last. Somehow, somewhere he'll figure out she's not worth as much as he thought she was. And he'll leave. And it will leave her broken, as she has been many times before. She thinks maybe it will hurt less this time, because she's done this over and over. Really though, she knows that it only hurts more. And will.
Self-deprecation. She chalks it up to a sense of humor and he doesn't buy it for a second. He gets anxious, irritated even when she says certain things with a laugh and the challenge of a raised eyebrow. He doesn't understand why she insists on saying stupid things; she can't explain that it's her only truth. So she doesn't and he chides her. But afterwards he comforts her and he holds her, and that part she likes. Even on the occasions where she doesn't believe what she's saying, she says it anyway because she knows he'll hold her.
Scars. He won't look deep enough and he won't ask. There's nothing on the surface because she's not foolish enough to make it public. But there are things and there are methods, and he knows her methods but he ignores them. He sees her as no one else does. Pure. And while that's beautiful, it's also nothing short of idealistic. Inherently, she's sure he finds a filthy comfort in her. When he's breathing her name against her neck or has her body pressed against his; when he says awful things about her and to her because it's the heat of the moment and that's what he thinks he's supposed to do. She mistakes that for honesty and knows that he's just another scar that won't fade.
Her eyes search his for some sign of doubt, some proof that he isn't in this for the same reasons. It would be easy to use her. She would probably let herself be used. They both know this. She would never ask questions and he would always take it for granted. But he doesn't and she can't figure out why. He always seems so damn sincere and it throws her. So while he thinks it's defining their relationship, his faith in her, she finds that it's killing it.
Jealousy is her only way out. She sees him with her best friend, having a real conversation she knows. Something that doesn't involve anything physical; something that has more to do with lips functioning as they're supposed to instead of a method of excuse. They talk and they're friends and that has roots. She herself has only lust to offer him, or so she thinks. She sells him her heart in the shape of her body, the only thing she's capable of giving. And when he receives it she prays that he doesn't think it's old or used or any of the things it really is. Although he probably does. Looking at them through glass windows, her heart is already tired. She tries to put on her game face, but she can't anymore.
He blows it off with ease, as she expected him to do so. He feeds her the opposites attract crap and the things he loves about her, which, as irony would have it, are the things she hates about herself. She doesn't believe him for a second but always wants to. And she reaches for her game face once more and gives into him, heart and mind and body and soul. Of all those things, her body is the only one that never hurts. That never really feels anything, and somehow that becomes her safety net.
She can't give him what he needs, what he will eventually want. She can't provide him with intellectual conversation or even interesting conversation, as much as she wants to. All of a sudden she figures out that she loves him, and loving him is her demise. He can't and won't ever love her, not really. Not in the same way. Sooner or later he'll realize that and he'll know what she knows.
He'll find himself feeling exactly what she does, and trying to brush it off just as she has.
Despite his kisses and his words and his looks.
She just can't shake the feeling that she's not good enough.