Craving To Be Chosen

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.