i think you think i’m better than i am, that i’m more successful than i really am, that i act better than i really do, that i’m nicer than i really am. i’m not that great, but thanks for thinking so. thanks for your perfect phonecalls, your texts that are worded so horribly, but sound so perfect in my head when i read them; i know what you mean every time. i see something in you that no one else does, i’m sure of it. you asked me for help, and you meant it; you know i can take you out of what you’re in now, you need someone to help you, i don’t mind doing so. i’m just rambling ‘cause i know i’ll read this later and it’ll all make sense. when you ask me questions about how i feel, i know you get frustrated with me because i can’t tell you outloud, i can text you things that i can’t bring myself to say. but i know you know. i haven’t had this feeling in a while, that feeling when i hate looking at my texts if they’re not from you, when my phone rings, and it’s a client, i’m disappointed. you’re everything i want, but nothing that’s good for me. you aren’t good for me, you’re not what i’d ever expect myself to want, you’ll probably hurt me, fuck me over, and make me wish i never met you, but it’ll probably be all my fault in the end.. but for now, you’re perfect, you say the right things. thanks.
