They don’t like you. They like the idea of you. When they see the greatness of your love, they feel threatened. Because deep down they know they have loved not the entirety of you. Deep down they know they aren’t capable of such fierce endeavours. They could never trail the confounding depths of your beauty. They tiptoe out of your world when they see the freedom in your eyes. You’re too wild to be tamed. Yet too delicate for them to be tempted. So they try the moment they lay eyes on you. They would just glance over the cover and decide to win you like you are a prize in a contest. If only they had the patience to read the chapters. If only they had the intellect to read between the lines. They could see how intricately designed you are.
No wonder you’re wild. No wonder you’re free. No wonder you’re beautiful. But they will never know why. They just loved the sound of you tending to their needs, healing thier wounds. Just like the idea of owning an alluring book. A book they would never read. They would prefer to have you that way. Neatly arranged at the top of their shelves. A mysterious possession of pride. Despite your excuses, they perceive you as such. A cryptic being. An enigma. An incomprehensible enchantress. And they will call that romantic. No wonder they say romance is dead.
They will compile you through their limited perception of you. Try to readjust the parts they don’t find lovely for you have been defying the laws of the ever-so-present user-manual. They would argue that you have changed while you were quietly undoing yourself. Uncurling yourself. Untangling yourself from the webs of your past. They let you down through their relentless cowardice. Yet, I see it is you, who is whole and them, broken. But there you are again in the corner, vehemently sobbing over such wretched effervescent beings who torment you for being nothing but yourself. How preposterous! How ridiculous!