Craving To Be Chosen REMIX
I don't want you.
That's the fucked-up part.
I want your eyes when I walk in.
I want the stumble in your heart.
I want the message after midnight.
Want the second text you send.
Want to leave you there on read just long enough to do
it again. Want you wondering where I went.
Want you asking who I'm with.
Then the second that you want me— I don't know what the
hell I want with it.
Maybe I
don't chase connection. Maybe I
chase evidence. Every person who desires me makes me feel significant.
I don't want you.
I want to be wanted.
Want the room to shift the second that I walk in.
I don't need forever.
I need the voltage.
That little fucking second when I know I've got your focus.
I don't want you.
That's what makes it cruel.
I want you wanting me— then I don't know what to do
with you.
I've wanted people I couldn't stand
because they didn't want me first.
Turn rejection into chemistry.
Turn ego into thirst.
Then they finally lean closer.
Suddenly the spell gets thin.
Maybe I wasn't chasing them.
Maybe I was chasing
the fucking win.
It's easy calling something passion when you're starving to be seen.
Sometimes lust is just insecurity wearing something tight and clean.
I don't want you.
I want to be wanted.
Want my name inside your mouth when you know you shouldn't call
it. I don't need your future.
I need the moment where your careful little distancereaks because I got
too close to it.
I don't want you.
And maybe that's the truth: I keep collecting people's hunger like it
proves
I'm worth the food.
Here's the part nobody says: Sometimes I don't want sex.
I want somebody choosing me
hard enough
that I forget myself.
Sometimes I don't want love.
I want proof I could've had it.
And the ugliest addiction?
Getting what you wanted— then immediately losing interest in having it. (beat)
There it is.
I don't want you.
I want to be wanted.
Want the confirmation without everything that follows.
I want the heat.
I want the hunger.
Want to fill the empty room without admitting that it's hollow.
I don't want you.
Maybe I never did.
Maybe I've spent years
calling it desire
when what I really
wanted was— to be picked.
Choose
me. (beat) Now tell me why I want to leave.