He says he doesn’t really believe in love. I kind of just stare, probably laugh a bit uncomfortably. I shift in my seat, press my lips to the bottle before I squeak out: “What do you mean you don’t believe in love?”
“I just don’t think I’m capable.”
I’m allergic to gluten but will take you to the donut shop and kiss you after each bite you take. Baby, I’ll let bees sting me and give you their honey. I don’t know why I keep thinking pain means romance. Or sacrifice means “I want you” but maybe I’ll start going back to therapy tomorrow. Or next week. It’s just so easy when we make couches here. We’re just so good at being bad for each other.
One day, I will stop liking boys who like being sadder than me. One day, I will stop liking boys who need mothers or protectors or someone to just love them a little harder because something went wrong back then. I can’t keep trying to save everyone in my bed. Especially when I’m not even trying to save me.