You’re too soft. You’re too hard. You’re too shy. You’re too loud. You’re too quiet. I tell myself that everything that I need to be is in all the words that everyone around me has ever said. Don’t do this, but be this. Be that. Don’t be too much of this, but be a lot of that. Those lies are deceiving and so are your eyes. Your breath on my neck and your hands on my hips as I think about all those little things that I’m not, but I am and your lips fall heavily on my mouth and those thoughts melt away. But then again, I think too much. I speak too much. I can’t wait to get out of your presence. I hate you as much as I’ve hated anyone, yet I can’t wait to be with you. Push me away like you do with everyone. Tell me all of your secrets late at night, naked with your chest heaving up and down. Then push me out the door, tell me to leave, ask me quickly to go, as you pull on your pants, and turn on the sink to brush your teeth. Don’t look at me. Don’t even talk to me. Let me fall in love. Let me in, but only for a second. Kiss me hard. Slowly. Long and with fervor. Push me out the door. Don’t forget to throw me away. I’m too quiet. I’m too loud. I’m too shy. I’m too hard. I’m too soft.