Fix[er-upper]

It doesn't excite me
when you invite me
to do all the touching and loving;
I said it isn't all about me,
but sometimes it should be,
and your apathetic approach hurts
more than I'll ever let on.
But bring it on,
I'll take the pain with the rest of you.
I do my best to make you grin,
and I love the smell of your skin,
the tiny goosebumps that cover it
when I lightly brush my fingertips
against your sides and your hips,
and how you smile when you call me lame.
But it stings,
to know you really think I'm silly
and weak.
You really believe that,
when I've spent so much time
smoothing out the rough edges
so that nothing would cut you to the bone
when you rub against me.
I made a mistake, when I cried
in bed beside you,
and told you not to tell me you love me
unless you mean it.
I almost think the lie would be better
than the bald faced truth that freezes
everything between us.
I clung to the smiles and memories of muttered profanities
for as long as I could,
but I don't know if they're enough anymore--
except that I'm certain
that it's all I'm going to get.
The only thing holding me back
from cutting my losses and running
is the knowledge
that you won't even miss me,
and I'm too self-centered to leave
until you need me.