It Doesn't Matter, Anyway, Why You Like

I Think I'm Way Too Much Of A Control Freak To Co-author Anything With Anyone. I Have A Hard Enough Time Writing With Myself! I Admire People That Can Do It, But It's Not For Me.

You Don't Have To Say It Out Loud. I Already Know Why You Like Me.' 'you Do, Huh?' 'yep.' He Wrapped His Arms Around My Waist, Pulling Me Closer. 'so,' I Said. 'tell Me' 'it's An Animal Attraction,' He Said Simply. 'totally Chemical.' 'hmm,' I Said. 'you Could Be Right.' 'it Doesn't Matter, Anyway, Why You Like Me.' 'no?' 'nope.' His Hands Were In My Hair Now, And I Was Leaning In, Not Able To Totally Make Out His Face, But His Voice Was Clear, Close To My Ear. 'just That You Do.

He Was Looking At Me, Jsut As I'd Thought He Would Be, But Like Bert's, His Light Was Not What I Expected. No Pity, No Sadness: Nothing Had Changed. I Realized All The Times I'd Felt People Stare At Me, Their Faces Had Been Pictures, Abstracts. None Of Them Were Mirrors, Able To Reflect Back The Expression I Thought One I Wore, The Feelings Only I Felt.

But Accepting Help Doesn‟t Have To Mean Giving Up Control.

I Was Tired Of Hanging On, Taking The Torn Pieces To Make Something Whole With Them.