The Flower Screaming From the Garden...

I'm not as special as you say, and I guess I'm not as beautiful as you say. But I am as stupid as you said, and as naive. Stupid to believe you'd change. Stupid to believe you'd love me. Stupid to fall for all those little things, little things that you gave me—the attention, the obsession, the dependency, the dire need to cling. I let myself be fooled by it, by all of the sweet things you'd say to me.

But you don't love me. You love yourself. You love the idea of not having to be alone, and of having someone—anyone—to fall back on.

And stop asking me how I know. Stop asking me what I've heard, or what I've seen. Think about what you've said, and what you've shown me. What you continue to show me.

I'm not as "yours" as you say, and I guess you're not as "mine" as you say. But we're both as stupid as you said, and as naive. Because you too believed silly things. Believed I'd be under your spell for as long as you wanted. Believed I wouldn't see through your faults. But I didn't just see through your shortcomings, or your facade. I saw through your glasses, and it showed me your lies. I saw everything—everything you tried to sugarcoat, everything you tried to hide.

You were never really mine. You were always hers, and I should've realized it from the beginning. Because you were reminded of her in everything, and you said you'd support her through anything. And I guess I'm just the ground to help you stand until she returns, or until you have the courage to find her.

I want you to need me. But you're upset that you can't see my need. But you want her. You need me. I want you. I need you to want me, and I wonder if you'll see the difference anytime. Because to want someone is to choose them. To need them is to not want them to let you go—because you can't stand to be alone. I want you to choose me, but you choose her.