Disorderly stream of consciousness- contents of my head:

 Excited and unsure. The school girl fascinated by the potential; enthralled by the could-be and utterly unsure of herself.

And I wonder why I care? Do I seek his worship? Do I want to control him?

I don’t think so. I just want to be loved.

(But you are loved)

Love I can feel, love I can touch. I can’t put my fingers through the nail wounds like they could, where are you?

I want him to be taken by me. To see my beauty and worth and to be warmed by it. To think such things about me that I understand in an abstract way about other people but am repulsed by the idea of them being thought about me. But it is not so much a physical thing as a deep, spiritual,  guttural yearning one.

This boy, born an anarchist; rebellious and smart arse-ish to his very core, apparently dropping his guard only for a select few, who held my hand and talked me to sleep when I couldn’t get there of my own volition, whose dimples seemed attached invisibly to my stomach which feels as though it is kicked every time they appeared.

But I hear you call, and remember the ancient precaution against giving your heart away before it’s time.

And I stand half way between both. Neither here nor there. Knowing that I have cheated on you, Lord. Not physically but a thousand times over in my head and heart.

And I wonder out aloud where you are. I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t come near me either.