You’re not ready to love me, but you would rather die than have me take my love.
What is that? You want to give “it” time, discover me, and test out just how real my feelings are.
But I have said it, I have shown it, I have laughed it girlishly in your ears, sung it huskily into your chest, etched it out in kisses on your soft hair, you have heard it beat with the pulsing of my heart, where your head lay, cushioned in my bosom.
There is evidence of my affection in the way I chat with you, send you pictures of myself when you don’t even ask, call you as often as I can, struggle to text you because you love text messages, even though I don’t any more.
Lightning won’t strike out the letters “She really loves you, mahn” in the sky, a strange old lady won’t stop you in the street, clutch you by the hand and be like,
“Child, there’s a girl in your life.
Joy. She really loves you. You must be with her forever.”
Life is not a Wale Adenuga production, thankfully. It will not happen.
No matter how forward and honest I am, you are still the man. I can’t do it all.
Maybe I should kill myself, literally.
Then, when everyone gathers to say what a saint, what an angel, I really was… Maybe then it’ll hit you in retrospect (isn’t she a bitch), how much I really wanted to just be happy with you.