Hell, I don’t even know how this came up, but:
“I’m not worried about it,
you’ve made it abundantly clear–
–how much you don’t like me like that.
I’m more than capable of taking a hint.“
“No, I never said that.”
“Yeah, she never said that,
keep at it and you’ll wear her down eventually.“
“Yeah, you’ll wear me down eventually.”
well…
Nope, let’s kick-start that a little better,
Well…
Not enough, not enough ooph, let hit that gas,
let’s let if fuckin’ speed off 900 miles an hour,
let it, let it, let it loose.
WELL–
–Let’s have a talk about how we first met,
Let’s talk about how it came up that I was bi,
How your response went:
“See, bi people just strike me as so slutty.“
How you don’t fucking get it when I point out that’s shitty.
How I can’t remember you actually apologizing.
Let’s have a talk about that one time we almost kissed.
You remember, wait, no, you probably don’t,
which is why we didn’t.
You’re laying next to me on my bed,
and we’ve had a moment, you cryed into my shoulder,
crying things you asked me never, never to tell.
And I’d been flirting, and I’d been holding you,
my hand on your soft skin, your eyes met mine,
deep breath, pupils dialate,
and then I remember how fucking drunk you are.
So we don’t, because consent.
Because I don’t want to be something you regret in the morning.
Let’s talk about how you don’t ever initiate any conversations,
how I’ve recieved one text from you, one,
where you weren’t looking to find out where my friend is.
Let’s talk about how I took the hint that you didn’t want to fuck,
first drop of the hat,
and helped you hook up with that guy you couldn’t take your eyes off.
Let’s talk about the first time I walk into that bar,
and don’t talk to you,
Because I brought a friend to cheer his ass up,
You drop this “You’ll wear me down eventually” shit.
I think that maybe you and I have what’s called a miscommunication.
And maybe it’s my ego, but I doubt it’s on my end.
See, I don’t know what you want from me.
And I’m a little pissed because treating you like a decent human being,
respecting you for who you are and what you want,
well that doesn’t seem to be it.
Which is why,
which is why,
Which is why we must not be talking about the same things,
because that can’t,
that can’t be it.
I don’t, I don’t get it.
Do you want me to be more forward?
Do you want me to ramble on about how beautiful you are?
“You’ve got the kind of legs a man gets on his knees to pray to,
little kisses up your thigh, and Hail Marys on your clit ‘til Mary hails back.“
“You’ve got eyes that make me forget who I am,
that I’m pissed at how you treat me.”
“You’ve got soft skin that I couldn’t help but scratch and bruise as I practically, beg, fucking beg, to consume you.“
You want me to lean in close,
share your breath as mine,
hand moving up your thigh as my heart beats in my ears?
How I’ll call you tomorrow,
if it’s good sex I’ll want more,
if it’s bad sex I’ll want to do better,
if we end up talkin’ hours ‘n hours into the night,
that it’ll mean something?
You don’t,
you don’t…
you don’t get that.
Fuck.
Breath damnit.
I ain’t gonna wear you down.
You’ve made it clear that road goes nowhere,
and I ain’t gonna bend over backwards to give you the attention.
There ain’t anything in your behavior that says you respect me.
not, at least, not to me.
I spent six years loving someone,
One and a half with her lovin’ back,
Four and a half after draggin’ her pack.
But you, you wouldn’t know that.
Just,
just,
just fuck that.
Fuck off.
