Do you trust me?
Do you think I’m an innocent woman?
You ask because you think I desperately seek demons and darkness and drama and chaos. Such an innocent vanilla girl. You ask because you think I enjoy the imitations of the women whose fantasies you project onto. You ask because I yearn to be an ideal lover, a projected fantasy. You ask because you think I have any investment in seducing a man who is full of emptiness, whose shallowness runs so deep. I ask you "Do you trust me" and you say "Of course I do" and by yourself you volunteer information such as "I think you are a sweet woman, with a heart full of gold, and your voice is so soft and sweet and tender and your eyes light up the room and I see the little girl in you, I see the weaknesses of you"
And it angers me. You have no clue, I should have worn a warning sign that such proclamations of the heart, such seemingly innocent confessions are in fact your death sentence.