Do you not get it? Is it that hard? And the anatomy of my affection so inconceivably difficult to unravel? It isn't.
It's rather simple. Honest and uncomplicated. And you're not naive yourself. So don't flatter yourself yet. Not now, not ever.
Don't flatter yourself with the sole assumption that I am in love with you. I am not. Can never be.
I busy my mind with your thoughts, force feed the imaginative future that I may come to live in with you someday, because, baby, I am only trying to run away from myself. Yeah.
You see, I am this obnoxiously obsessed woman who cannot stop thinking and constantly needs something for her mind to feed on. Anything, at all. Like they say gastric acids eat up the stomach walls if there's no food, a similar force of self-destruction is my underlying. And if I don't think about you, proxima centauri, some extinct mesozoic reptile, or you, nothing would stop me from thinking about myself.
And thinking about myself, is fatal. That's why I pretend to love you. To convince myself that it's not yet time to take the self seriously. So don't just flatter yourself. And boast about getting me off your back. Hah! You've no idea.