I tell you all of the things you want to hear.
Like, “I don’t want to get serious either.”
Like, “It’s ok, you have to follow your own path.”
Like, “Your dick is great.”
Well, in all Romancesty, I did want to get serious with you, but I kept my shields up and locked down which I’m fucking ecstatic that I did, and that you are a damn fool for letting a woman like me come in and change your perspective on life and love and toss me to the side for second rate pussy that will trash you the way you did me, and finally your dick is too small for me because I need a big dick or a man who acts like he has one.
In all Romancesty, I do deserve light and passion and heartening, consuming love. Someone who listens to my words and wonders if our souls are more than destiny, more than the limits our minds have set.
In all Romancesty, I need intensity. Burning, raw, driven, stare into each others eyes and drown out ambient lighting because the dark is so fucking alluring. And I am the dark.
In all Romancesty, I want to be the sun and the moon and influence the tides so that when you go to sleep at night, you know my nature will keep your world turning.
In all Romancesty, everyone one of your words was a foolish lie, a line that I believed because you believed it when you said it with your mouth and your mind, but your heart was so clouded with fear and doubt that a simpleton such as yourself could never have comprehended what a woman like me is made of.
In all Romancesty, you are the deadened leaves that will nourish my soil so that something better, something stronger may grow in the wake of your demise.
In all Romancesty, you will never find the love you are looking for because you are too busy wandering around your fantasy forests, ignoring the trees.
And in all Romancesty, your rejection made me stronger. And you, weaker.