Spilled Ink from the Vault

I want to ask you why you don’t want me.

This doesn’t mean I want you to want me. 
I do, and I don’t, at the same time
(remember when I explained that I’m a paradox)
Everyone wants to be wanted, but I 
don’t need you to want me, and it’s honestly easier
that you don’t. 

I want to ask you why you don’t want me. 
I don’t want to love you. 

I want to believe my head can direct, if not actually control,
my heart. 

I want to believe that learning from past mistakes
means never making them again.

I’m not saying you’d be a mistake.
You certainly haven’t been yet.
But I can see all the reasons this would not be wise.

I don’t want to love you.
But I want to ask why you don’t want me.
You see, I need to know,
because the truth is rarely worse
than reasons I can conjure up alone.

And also, I don’t want to ask. 
What if the truth is worse?
What if the truth proves my inner critic right?

I don’t want to love you, not like this.