Sick and Tired

I'm sick to death of my poetic ramblings. If you can't give me what I want, fine, but if you can't admit to yourself that you want it just as bad and more but are too scared to break things off with him, go fuck yourself. I'm not dealing with this shit anymore. I'm just hanging on by the fingertips here and wasting all my strength trying to climb back up the impossible hill to your heart, while you're having the time of your life. How can I feel good about anything when you're having such a good time? I'm afraid that doing the smallest thing will ruin your fun. You're a big girl. I love you. You can do a million things and you'll always be smiling while you do them. It's not fair that I had to meet you right now. I'm always going to regret not having you as a friend, being incapable of refusing deeper emotions. I love the way you make me feel. I love the way I want you in every way. I can't do it if you're keeping him around. I won't do this anymore. I want the best for you and can't figure out how to play my part. You haven't given me an idea of where I stand, and as much as I hate you for it I'm still willing to let it slide. Fuck that. I'm sick of playing dead. We're too good for this.