Scared to be left, to my self, alone.
Insecurely holding on.
Hoping to fall in love and attach, perhaps, too fast.
I am intense.
I guess, because my heart was gashed, and I am afraid.
Too intense, and it’s what I embrace, because I’m afraid of days, where I feel played, forgotten and darkest.
I worked so hard to get to this mental space, of clarity and understanding.
I’m intense because my love is demanding.
I never received or gotten love reciprocated from parents.
It’s a shame and an ugly mess.
I stare in the mirror often, to see it all.
It’s like beautiful work from Van Gough.
Except, only I can understand and see the master piece.
While the rest only sees what is left of me.
It isn’t sufficient, you have to read and see the totality, I cry.
But I am impatient and intense, waiting for someone to turn the pages with sincere patience…
You’ve been doing that, while my intensity is lowering its threshold.
Reality shifts, and dimmers, while I realize the absurdity of my intense intentions.
I am sorry.
I had it rough is my excuse.
I’m doing my best, and I am true.
Please, hold my hand and be my friend.
Listen to my thoughts, in between kisses, while capturing my imagination…
I’ll cherish you forever, an intense love, like no other.