'You think it's romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you'. One day you'll figure out her secrets: the seashell always kept in her pocket, the doodles that cover customer's bills at work. You'll discover why she smokes.
When this happens, she’ll somewhat diminish in your eyes. No longer mysterious, enigmatic, with nerves twisted around strange longings and quaint desires.
She’ll be perceived differently. The girl who cries often, no matter how many times she tells you her allergies are playing up.
Your interest is lost, reinvested in a different girl who doesn’t drink too much red wine, or set fire to things for fun. A girl with stronger arms, whose independence isn’t faked because she wants to make you more interested in her, but because she’s not all that interested in you.
She’ll fuck you, figure you out and then leave you. Playing you at your own game.