How much time have you got for me?
How much can you give me?
How much do you want to try?
I’m pretty demanding.
I need a lot. A lot of love, a lot of attention, a lot of space.
I feel like an exotic species of plant that requires really specific circumstances to bloom, and then only does so for a couple of hours, maybe releasing some horrible, sour-tasting fruit that just about anybody would want to spit back out after the first couple of mouthfuls.
I feel just like that.
I feel too demanding to ever be properly loved.
I feel like like I ask too much of you, or rather, I know you can’t give me as much as I want, so I don’t mind asking.
I’d love it to rain, but I know it won’t, so I’m just going to stand under the sky and dream of rain for a little while.