He doesn't know ME. That- in itself is completely obvious. He doesn't know my favorites, things I dislike, my dreams. He doesn't know my habits, my hobbies, my sadness. He doesn't know what angers me or what makes me happy. He doesn't know how my sentences will end or how I feel on Tuesdays. He doesn't know how much pain I've endured that made me this way. He doesn't know the darkness that lives inside of me. He doesn't know how hard I've fought to be myself in a world that questions that. He doesn't know how bold I can be when I feel the need. He doesn't know deep I love when I love. He doesn't know how much it took for me to open up and not be alone anymore. He doesn't know how much I struggle daily. He doesn't know the guilt that has made a home within me. He doesn't know the grief I live with everyday. He doesn't know I don't take pictures anymore. He doesn't know I don't write anymore. He doesn't know I am at war with myself. He doesn't know I enjoy chaos. He doesn't know I think I am not beautiful. He doesn't know I feel unwanted. He doesn't know the reasons behind my decisions. He doesn't know what exactly is important to me. He doesn't know why I am often content with nothing. He doesn't know I cry everyday. He doesn't know I long for him when he is sitting beside me. He doesn't know I'm scared of the dark. He doesn't know the lengths in which I'd go to make him happy. He doesn't know that his words hurt me. He doesn't know that I want nothing more than to be with him. He doesn't know that the dreams I have at night come true, and the ones I have during the day- don't.
Maybe none of this matters to him. Maybe he is content with not knowing.
But how can he love me and not even know me?
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