Is it bad that all of my poems are about the way you hurt me?

Is it bad that now you want me again?

Is it bad that I never not wanted you?

Is it bad that even though you caused me so much pain, I’m willing to throw away all the progress and countless hours of picking the broken pieces of my heart up?

Is it bad that im willing to let you come back to your place in my heart even, when I know you’ll leave it empty again?

I was a flower. A beautiful blossoming flower, you made me blossom more. My petals were at their peak. You left and my petals withered away just like my innocence and self love did.

I will make the same mistake to let someone plant my seeds again, let me blossom, let me love, and let me fall apart so you can have a flower crown.

I remind myself of a flower.

I constantly grow, getting stronger, much stronger but then my faith and hope withers away. You were my water. I needed you or I felt sick, I dried up and died without you, but my seeds will be planted once again, just to die again.

I’m not going to make some ******* up and say that you haven’t hurt me more times than you’ve loved me. Instead I’ll tell myself how you really made me feel.
You your stupid smirk made me feel like a small child on Christmas Eve, it made me feel giddy and anticipation. Those types of feelings are the ones that I loved, I loved when you’d lay your head on my shoulder, during parties you’d stick right with me throughout the night, held me close. I loved those moments but those moments that you called me down, called me names and made me feel worthless, those are the moments that I would go crazy for just to have one more good memory. I fell for the guy that picked me up after you pushed me down, I fell for the guy that told me things nobody else will ever know, I fell for the guy that begged for my affection and attention as if I was a queen. You played tug-of-war with my feelings, my heart. You pulled me down then right back up. You made me feel alive and full, you made me feel rebellious, but now you make me feel empty, please come fill me again.

It’s not just the song that kills me, it’s the way I listened to the lyrics while talking to you.

It’s not just the song that kills me, it’s the way I smiled when I heard it. When I heard it my brain turned those lyrics into your beautiful face.

It’s not just the song that kills me, it’s the way it reminds me of the pain you caused me. The heartbreak, the embarrassment, the pure anger.

It’s not just the song that kills me, it’s you.

I am not bipolar and yet I am. I carry it with me everywhere. I am at the top of the slide, the breeze hitting my face along with happiness, whipping my hair around, lacing my whole being with joy and pure euphoria.

I slip, I slip so hard and fast, it hurts, everything hurts and I’m at the very bottom, too weak to move, everything is pointless.

I climb, more like fly to the top, it’s unexpected, more like I blasted there, maybe im stable but consequences are always definite.