Fallacy.

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I’ve been wondering how you have the ability to recklessly judge my character,

When you know my world revolves around your opinion,

When I’m ready to beg at your feet;

You tell your friends that you don’t want to be with that type of girl,

And I was confused because I didn’t think I was anyone but myself,

That I was some sort of reckless fallacy,

But you did.

All you could tell me,

All you could say was that my actions were a bullet in your heart,

Yet you knew it was you who shattered my soul,

And I believe that you would take me back if I stopped giving my body away,

But you never did.

 

And the irony was that the same boy who would beg for my body,

Would hate me if another did,

And that somehow I was at fault for being promiscuous,

That what I did with my body was for society to determine,

But it’s not.

 

And so now that you can’t look me in the eyes,

Know that my body was never yours,

And it never will be;

Because I’d rather be a fallacy than deal with your never-ending tragedy,

And even though I loved you,

I think I know better now.

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Impulsive.

He’s too shy to tell you. He’s got a heart that blazes for every inch of you, but he will never tell you of how his mind is seeped with thoughts of the sweet nectar that you speak, of the waves that ripple through your hair, of the love that he wants but is too afraid to ask for. 

He’s never going to tell you. You look through your conversations as if this time he’s going to tell you that he loves you but you know those words will never leave his soul. He’s trapped in his own worst fear, and you solemnly acknowledge that even if you say something, he’d never say anything back.

We’re all too scared to tell the people we love how we feel. We’re always hesitating, as if anything bad could ever come from giving love to people instead of the hate that is prevalent in this dismal world. 

Rejection is our only fear, it is the only barrier that keeps us away from bliss and it is tiring. It’s tiring that he won’t tell you how he feels, or that she didn’t kiss you when she had the chance, because what if we stop being friends? What if the whole world finds out?

It’s as though letting people know our happiness is a disaster, but it seems to have become so, and there’s nothing we can do. As though life could end if people found out about the truth, as though there’s a death wish in being passionate. 

There is nothing and no one that can discount your feelings except for you, because when will you realise that love is fickle but it’s meant to be, and if you don’t say something now, you probably never will. 

It’s never been difficult to be impulsive in anger. Why should it be difficult in brazen, unapologetic and beautiful love? 

It shouldn’t.