I am like a child. The other day, I tried to write a poem the other day about all the things that are wrong with me. Of course, the poem failed, but I still had all the topics planned out for each verse. And the most normal one was the fact that I’m like a child. I fail at all these adult things. Picking up on stuff, knowing people, falling for people, figuring things out for myself… Ugh.
The guy I would like to flirt with me gives mixed signals. Very mixed signals. And then there’s this other guy who seems like he is flirting with me. And I’m just thinking to myself “please stop flirting with me, because I’d rather it came from the other guy”. But I keep talking, because I don’t want to seem rude. And so then I get paranoid that he thinks that my ordinary talking is me flirting with him. And then I get paranoid that the way he sees me is the same way I see the other guy. And then I feel sad.
As well as the childlike verse, there were also five other planned verses. One of them was about how I never seem to get sad about anything other than shallow problems like men. One of them was about how I’m so damned socially awkward and shy. Another one was partly to do with me being insecure, but also related to occasional conflicting feelings. Another related to my mind and love. The last, and weirdest verse, is a secret I shall never tell.