That you could still affect me so. That you could still tug at my heartstrings and get me to do whatever you like. That you could make me wish for terrible, awful things made pretty by the curve of your mouth, by the slope of your neck, by the shadows that your eyelashes cast on your cheekbones.
You make me want things I shouldn't, but I want them so badly it's shameful. I thought that with time it would get better, but instead it's gotten worse.
And now that you're sixteen, it's even more maddening.
Oh, the things you do to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment