Self-Inflicted

Don't make me like you.

Don't use the same tricks.

You don't know you use them but they are there.

You know I like you, you know I'll always like you.

Always like what you can't have.

I hate you.

I like you.

I love you.

I hate you.

I hate you for making me a pathetic, indecisive, whiny girl every time I see you.

I don't want to think about you.

I don't want to like you.

I don't even want to see you.

You are a pathetic excuse for a human.

You should be nothing to me but I can't deny how much I've fallen for you.

And it's not fair,

I don't even know you.

Not really.

I only know you like me too.

Or, do you?

I'm not sure,

never sure.

But that doesn't matter,

does it?

I'll still like you.

I hate wasting space

in my head,

my heart,

my notebooks,

my computer

...for you.

I should be the strong, cold woman everyone sees me as.

I can't hold the mask up all the time,

it's very heavy.

Why is there torture?

Why with emotions?

I want to go,

just leave.

I wish I knew where to go,

because how can you run from something that lives inside your head?

You can't.

So I stand here,

tortured.