Speak Slow, Tell Me More

For the first time since the thunder began I felt a sense of purpose as I sped to my home.

What was I doing? I couldn't kiss him. I couldn't. What if he read into it? What if he loved me?

What if I loved him back?

I couldn't. I couldn't let it happen like that again. But if it wasn't happening, what was this feeling?

What was this urge to rip myself open, to lie there with everything torn apart for him to see? I would have let him into my head, let him know everything that was wrong. Let him see me. And I would patiently wait for him to come and tell me I was wasting my time. Hating every second of my life because he wasn't a part of it would have been better than letting him go.

What is this thing called love?

I crashed headfirst into my pillows and let out a scream. I hated him. Somehow in two days he'd gotten past defenses it had taken a year to build. I'd worked hard at being that fucked up, y'know? And he was just ripping it all away like he was already privy to everything I knew. Like he was ready to shake my foundations, crash my masks and costumes and bullshit I-don't-give-a-crap personality to the ground and rebuild me. And I was letting him. I was an idiot. How did I really know anything about him? How the hell did I know I wasn't about to get my head fucked with again?

I heard a bleeping noise from my bag and instinctively dug into it and grabbed my phone.

"Sorry for kissing you back I guess. Does that have to count as my second attempt? Song I'm listening to reminds me of you ;-) am I allowed to sign this with xx?"

I screamed again.

How the hell did I know he wasn't perfect?