Of all the methods of seduction know
to mankind the one I find most irresistible are words. Here's the deal, if a
guy can turn his words around and say them to me as if they were hand crafted
for me, I'm sold. I'm the kind of girl that listens to classics and hopes for
that kind of old school romance, who gets lost in the lyrics and hopes for that
kind of pure love.
So this is what I do to myself. I let you use your words on me. I let you use words to tell me I'm different, convince me I'm beautiful and make me believe I'm not just a number in your phone, a name in your black book. You of course know the power you yield, didn't I tell you that already? And don't you use that well. I'm a puppet, moving to the strings of your words, living in a make believe world. We exist in a bubble, a safe place where even though we aren't together, we're slaves ruled by the same inexplicable chemistry that I know I feel. The same one you convinced me that existed as you kissed me slowly.
But as is true of all seductions, make believe worlds and fantasies, this too crumbles. I now realize I am just another number, a name you could throw around. That the only time I was beautiful was when I looked into your eyes with the longing you knew you drove me to and the only chemistry was one in which I wanted you, a triumphant call to your ego, reminding you of how powerless I was under your words. As I look at the reflection of myself, I see looking back at me the person I don't recognize, a captor in my own personal hell.
So this is what I do to myself. I let you use your words on me. I let you use words to tell me I'm different, convince me I'm beautiful and make me believe I'm not just a number in your phone, a name in your black book. You of course know the power you yield, didn't I tell you that already? And don't you use that well. I'm a puppet, moving to the strings of your words, living in a make believe world. We exist in a bubble, a safe place where even though we aren't together, we're slaves ruled by the same inexplicable chemistry that I know I feel. The same one you convinced me that existed as you kissed me slowly.
But as is true of all seductions, make believe worlds and fantasies, this too crumbles. I now realize I am just another number, a name you could throw around. That the only time I was beautiful was when I looked into your eyes with the longing you knew you drove me to and the only chemistry was one in which I wanted you, a triumphant call to your ego, reminding you of how powerless I was under your words. As I look at the reflection of myself, I see looking back at me the person I don't recognize, a captor in my own personal hell.
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