You only need two points
To draw a linear function.
2 points
                  of reference...
From this you can derive the equation
y=mx+b
And the line goes on forever, never
wavering or changing and
2 events can predict the
                   future behavior of the graph
When it is linear.
I have you and another, I've tried twice
2 events and 2 points.
You do not love me,
                  I loved
Another took our friendship for more:
                   I feel more.
But that does not matter, at the end
I was in pain, twice I miscalculated yet
I'm good at math, shouldn't I see the
                    pattern now?
Now I draw a line on the graph
That goes on for infinity.

You assumed I had erred.
And, while it is human
To assume, why did you?
Perhaps it is because
I am a teen
And we are all the same anyways.

What does it mean
When the person who's supposed to love you the most
Hurts you the most?

head throbbing, no pop in my ear,
Or iPhone in my hand,
sitting on the steps of the third floor.
We sit together, after hours, in
the C wing halls
because you don't like books.
Beige tile meadows, sprinkled
Here and there
With wildflowers left by youth:
Doritos, Pepsi, lunch trays.
The brick sky overhead,
Gleaming with Edisonian sunshine.
We read the funnies,
Featured weekly on staircase rails
And bathroom stalls in Sharpie, we
Listen to rap in Cantonese and Korean,
Knowing that the open fights,
The stolen kisses, the dress code strictures
Are transient; what we'll remember
Is these walls and these rails
Breathe our lives, our thoughts,
Echoes our minds

I nursed it in my ***** while it lived,
I hid it in my heart when it was dead;
In joy I sat alone, even so I grieved
Alone and nothing said.

I shut the door to face the naked truth,
I stood alone—I faced the truth alone,
Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruth
Till first and last were shown.

I took the perfect balances and weighed;
No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise;
Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said,
But silent made my choice.

None know the choice I made; I make it still.
None know the choice I made and broke my heart,
Breaking mine idol: I have braced my will
Once, chosen for once my part.

I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,
Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.
My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,
Grows old in which I grieve.

II

I have a room whereinto no one enters
Save I myself alone:
There sits a blessed memory on a throne,
There my life centres.

While winter comes and goes—oh tedious comer!—
And while its nip-wind blows;
While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose
Of lavish summer.

If any should force entrance he might see there
One buried yet not dead,
Before whose face I no more bow my head
Or bend my knee there;

But often in my worn life's autumn weather
I watch there with clear eyes,
And think how it will be in Paradise
When we're together.

"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."

Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all:
        But in my solitary room above
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
        My heart is breaking for a little love.
                Though winter frosts are done,
                 And birds pair every one,
And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.

I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,
         I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:
Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,
        My heart that breaketh for a little love.
         While golden in the sun
        Rivulets rise and run,
While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.

All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts
         Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:
They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,
         My heart is breaking for a little love.
                 While beehives wake and whirr,
                 And rabbit thins his fur,
In living spring that sets the world astir.
I deck myself with silks and jewelry,
         I plume myself like any mated dove:
They praise my rustling show, and never see
         My heart is breaking for a little love.
                 While sprouts green lavender
                 With rosemary and myrrh,
For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
         Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
And cry one to another full of ruth,
         "Her heart is breaking for a little love."
                 Though other things have birth,
                 And leap and sing for mirth,
When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe";
         Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove
True best is last, true life is born of death,
         O thou, heart-broken for a little love!
                 Then love shall fill thy girth,
                 And love make fat thy dearth,
When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."

I'm tired of dreaming.
Of believing.
I know no one can ever love me.
But sometimes I forget.