You call me a pessimist. Yea, maybe. You're the optimist, so you believe all your statements are half-true. And you're left wondering why I care so much about your half-empty glass. Perhaps I just wanted to know if there was enough room left for me to fill it with my love.
There isn't. Your cup is half-full. Another triumph for optimism. And as the truth of your love fills your cup, brewed with the open faced lies he leaves inside of you, at least then I'll know what you are really made of. Then it would be my fault to drink.
You call me a pessimist. You're wrong. I already know you have more reason to not love him than you've told me. And you won't tell me because you don't want me to touch you with my words. I already know you're as dishonest with me now as you were when this all started. I already know you can't judge my book by anything more than it's cover. And still I love you.
My love is good for you. It has the power to heal and to protect and to defend. And so you've decided to brush your teeth with it and spit it out so that he can enjoy kissing you even more.
I'm the greatest optimist you'll ever meet, I'm a retired pessimist.
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