I have more than enough of you in my head. Too much for me to handle and too many for me to count.
I think it’s absurd that you have managed to, and that I let you, sink into every pore on my body that I could almost smell you. Your smiles haunt me and I don’t think I hear myself whenever I laugh. It scares me that I hear you but I don’t see myself complaining anytime soon. Your style has wormed its way into my day-to-day and I find myself liking trinkets that I would not buy before. I don’t think I will look like you though; you’re far too beautiful.
How much more of myself will I give to you willingly? Even if unwanted.
Is anything on me or about me mine at all–or is my entirety made up from parts of you that I have stolen?