contaminated love.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked me.

“I’m afraid of myself. Of not knowing what I’m feeling.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I could either be in love and not know it; leave you for it and realize later I made a mistake.”
“Think I’m in love and not be.”
“Well, which is it?” he stuttered.

“I don’t know, and that’s why I’m afraid.”


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