Tell Me What I Want To Hear


Tell me what I want to hear so that I won’t know what you’re really thinking. Be afraid of my reaction, yet not brave enough to hear it. Be scared of breaking my heart, because you know you’re not the first one to dent it. I’m not as fragile as you think. If you can’t admit to either of us what you’re really feeling it says more about your weakness than mine.

You think I like when you play pretend, but I don’t want you to play anything. This only began to be a game when we both began to be afraid of losing, but what we need to realize is that we’re not opponents. I’m not against you, I’m with you, and I have to trust that you feel the same.

And it’s hard to trust when there’s something you’re hiding. Your thoughts are on mute, but I’m reading closed captions. They’re telling me everything you won’t. Because you’re only telling me what you think I want to hear, but you’re mistaking me to be predictable.

There’s no doubt that I’ll be fooled at first, falling under and over every line, because no matter how many times it’s been said to me before, each time it sounds a little different. But there’s only so much you can say before I realize I’m no exception.

Because once I’ve realized that, it won’t matter how hard I’ve fallen, and you’ll reach out your hand to help me up, but I’ll want to stay right where I am. If I accept your kind gesture it will only lead to more. And the more I pass and resist the more persistent you’ll become because you think my reluctance is simply me denying my desires. And you’re probably right because I’m scared you’re reaching out your hand to help yourself more than me, and that’s why I wont reach back.

So what happens when you stop telling me everything you think I want to hear? It’s like a bad after taste, that moment when everything I want to hear becomes everything I’ve already heard.