Love is not for people like me.
It gives me a glimpse at a glance, demonstrating how I’ve been led on.
Every February, only one of two.
The month, not the day.
Love is not for people like me.
No matter how nerdy I am.
No matter how observant I can be.
No matter how caring I really am.
No matter how attentive I am.
No matter how the world treats me.
Love is just not for people like me.
I love to live, but I can’t live to love because it’s unattainable for a person like myself.
The glisten in my eyes doesn’t manifest at the sight of you anymore.
I don’t care to be proper for anyone anymore because love isn’t for me.
I hate it.
I hate the fake love people get to experience.
I hate that I hate the one thing I’m supposed to love; love.
I hate that I hate love.
I hate that I can’t have it.
To have your own person; to have your own comfort.
To have one person in the world able to tell you anything.
To be able to tell one person in the world anything.
I cannot capture such a fear.
So I tell myself that love isn’t real.
I dilute the happy thoughts with a watered-down version of the essence.
I hate that I can’t even love myself.
After all, love just isn’t for people like me.
It gives me a glimpse at a glance, demonstrating how I’ve been led on.
Every February, only one of two.
The month, not the day.
Love is not for people like me.
No matter how nerdy I am.
No matter how observant I can be.
No matter how caring I really am.
No matter how attentive I am.
No matter how the world treats me.
Love is just not for people like me.
I love to live, but I can’t live to love because it’s unattainable for a person like myself.
The glisten in my eyes doesn’t manifest at the sight of you anymore.
I don’t care to be proper for anyone anymore because love isn’t for me.
I hate it.
I hate the fake love people get to experience.
I hate that I hate the one thing I’m supposed to love; love.
I hate that I hate love.
I hate that I can’t have it.
To have your own person; to have your own comfort.
To have one person in the world able to tell you anything.
To be able to tell one person in the world anything.
I cannot capture such a fear.
So I tell myself that love isn’t real.
I dilute the happy thoughts with a watered-down version of the essence.
I hate that I can’t even love myself.
After all, love just isn’t for people like me.
