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♥ [r] no, definitely hate the playa. the game's f'd. |
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Girls?
Never,
ever,
ever ever ever ever
multiplied by ever to the nth power,
play with a player.
He brushes his fingers along your arms and tells you how beautiful you are, and being human { and female! }, you melt into a puddle of weak-kneed, lily-livered, flush-faced goo. And before you can st-st-stutter out a reply, he's swept across the room and is working his magic on yet another girl.
Yeah, you know who he is, and you know what he's like, but who can resist that sly grin? Those soulful eyes? Those honey-coated words?
Hah, not you, that's for sure.
And soon enough, you're ensnared, as if his voice was the music of the Pied Piper himself. You feel yourself getting closer to him, and you feel him getting closer to you too. It's not a playful wink or a game of footsy anymore. Things are starting to get heavy, and although you know his game, the thought's been pushed into a neglected corner. You don't care anymore. In your mind, you're different from them. In your mind, you're sure it's not fun and games anymore, and you like it this way.
Those ambiguous three words are flying around like moths around a zapper lamp. He tells you how much he likes this, how much he likes you. He insists that he's trying to change, and that you are his chance at 'redemption'.
And from that neglected corner, that thought you thought you'd tucked away neatly is turning in its grave. It's throbbing, it's screaming, but you're not listening. You're devouring his words, and downing them with a tall, cool glass of false love.
His texts become less frequent, your little meetings are slowly decreasing in number, and you're starting to wonder just how far this 'love' is supposed to go before it reaches its expiry date. Before long, the words "We need to talk," have rolled off your tongue, and he's grabbing your shoulders and looking into your eyes, saying, "I love you. I really do. I just haven't gotten a chance to see you," and in your mind you add, 'Or talk to you, or tell you how beautiful you are, or acknowledge your existence!' onto his sentence.
And you sit alone on a park bench, trying to figure out how to fix this mess, when the outlines of a happy couple appear up the sidewalk. They're laughing, they're kissing, they're radiant, and every bit of it upsets you. Why can't that be you and him?
And as they draw closer, you have your answer.
"You b*****d!" you scream as you jump out in front of them. "You lying b*****d! And all this time you were telling me you were different. Sucks to be me, eh?"
He looks at you, bewildered, sheepish, and the girl beside him is beyond confused. Face streaked with tears, you mentally kick the crap out of yourself for thinking that the affection was real. You throw your cappuchino at him, still scalding hot, and storm away in such anger that you nearly mow down an old lady and her little chihuahua.
Lessons learned?
a. Girl, you're not different.
b. He wasn't going to change.
c. No, you're not a complete idiot.
He's a smooth talker, that boy. He's charming and funny, and he knows which heartstrings to tug on.
You were just another target to practice on, another tree to sharpen his claws with, another point to leveling up.
How could this have been prevented? Fast forward to the beginning.
As he begins to tell you how your eyes light up the room, you raise an eyebrow, pull away from him, and put your hands on your hips. "Listen, honey, you're like a bad door-to-door salesman. You try to giftwrap it, but boy, I ain't buying what you're selling."
Z-snap is optional, but it adds pizazz.
c:
♥
 chai high · Sun Feb 21, 2010 @ 04:03pm · 1 Comments |
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