Not on your life.

I hug you too hard.
That's what I think, anyway. It feels like I might be squeezing the life out of you sometimes. It's not that I really know what to do with you once I have you, so tightly bound to me, but it's the thought of losing you that I can't stand, that makes me crush your flat-mouthed ribs and shoulderblades, sharp like knives.

My mother believes in Chris, not you.
That's what I know, anyway. It feels like the truth is right there, shimmering in a beautiful, poisonous orb, but she won't take it. It's not that she's stupid, or can't take a hint, but she believes what she wants to--Chris is something tangible wrought from a dream fragment. Chris is her last hope for me. She'll never put two and two together because it hurts her to do so, to realize that I'm her deviant daughter doomed to a dangerous life.

I'll never be jealous again.
That's what I say, anyway. It feels like really, I just exacerbated things, but it's okay because jealousy drove me out from the wharf of "Ohnocan'tdothat!" and it will drive me on forever. It's not that jealousy is so deadly, but it's my lovechild--and yet, I'd give it up for you.

I love you.
That's what I whisper to you, anyway. It feels like I could say it out loud if I were that little bit stronger. It's not that I don't feel it already, but I'm your wilting paramour who only pretends to be fearless. And sometimes doesn't even pretend.