I think I’ve been lying to myself.
The days go by with me running after you and loving you and obsessing over your attention, but now that I think about it, you don’t treat me kindly at all.
I always wanted to believe you loved me from the couple flirtatious moments we’ve shared, but more often than not you’re putting me down and insulting me.
I write about you all the time and make you poetry and journals and stories and my prince, my knight in shining armour, my one true love.
But recently I’ve noticed that my writing is fake. It’s what I’ve always wanted but was too blind to see would never happen.
Why do I do this to myself? I know I’ll continue to write and that I’ll hope that one day you’ll become the hero of all my make-believe stories.
I loath myself for what I put my own mind through, yet deep down, I know my lies are never going to stop.