When You Tell Me You Like Me

When you tell me you like me.

When you tell me you like me,
I stop myself from asking why.
I would love to know, love to know you,
Love to know myself through you,
But I am scared.

Scared to know what it is that you like about me,
Scared to know what it means about the other things about me.

When you tell me you like me,
I stop myself from asking why.
I’m terrified to know, love to know you,
Terrified to know myself through you,
And I am scared.

Scared one day I’ll stop being the me you like.
Scared one day you’ll stop liking me when I stop being the me you like.

When you tell me you like me,
I stop myself from asking why.
I would love to know, love you know you,
Terrified that I’d love to know myself through you.

Scared this innocent curiosity is narcissism rearing is ugly head.
Scared this wonder is nothing but a stroke to my ego, saying, “Tell me more.”

When you tell me you like me,
I stop myself from asking why.
I get conscious and shy, all-red and flustered,
I am happy that you tell me so but now I cannot look you in the eyes.
I would furrow my brows and sigh but inside my heart is smiling, my face getting hot by the moment—

 

I am breathless.

 

When you tell me you like me,
I stop myself from asking why.

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