I blame you. Again and again.
Incessantly I blame you.
You didn't give me enough of a chance. You didn't try to know me.
So then I wait for you.
Not stagnantly, no. I shower myself in attention: "Make him see you." Even worse... "Make him see that others crave you."
As if that jealousy alone will be enough to have you begging at my feet. So that then I can give you my perfectly rehearsed reprisal. Maybe this had worked once or twice before.
How fucking sad.
The desperation.
The speech I've prepared, so I can sell myself on you, denounce you for rejecting me, scoffing at how much I have to offer.
Yet, maybe if I was sincerely convinced of my worth, instead of tossing myself before you like shillings, just maybe, you would have never left.
So I blame you...
Rather than blame myself.
Because it's easier than submitting to the platitude of "it's just not the right time." It's easier than to succumb to the shiver of loneliness, shaking frantically trying to warm myself.
For we'd so much rather have someone to do the hard things for us, instead of discovering how to light the fire from within ourselves.
