You are good
in so many ways.
I am too, I suppose.
Never did you say or do
anything to make me feel
or think poorly of myself.
But somewhere along the way,
I came to find that in loving you,
and not winning your love in return,
I became unable to love myself.
Each kind gesture,
every smile flashed in my direction,
each gentle pat on the back,
your constantly extended helping hand.
They all made me feel as if I
were nothing more than
a fly, squished against the
bottom of your grey Nike’s.
So if you are so good
in every possible way,
how did loving you
make me hate myself?
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
Men like you make me want
to write poetry.
And, though it is unclear why,
I find myself flooded with the most
complex emotions anyone has ever
felt when I see you.
I know your eyes do not search for mine
across the room, nor does
your heart ache at my voice.
Yet you are aware,
and you somehow respect my feelings
for you– as if proud that
I even let myself get this far.
And while I have not the right,
I still worry over every
move you make.
Each tired sigh, every nervous laugh.
I see them, just as I see
everything you do.
So yes, maybe men like you make
me want to write poetry.
Okay, well, maybe only
you.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC