Unrequited love
makes you feel stinging bees
instead of butterflies.

Carve your initials on my skin
by tracing them with your fingers.

This surface will remember you,
caresses heavy with thought.

These words burn like acid
as I try to digest them
but they swallow me instead.

I don't remember when the **** my poetry became about pleasing people or getting votes or views.
I don't remember when my writings were only created to be approved by a friend.
I don't know when things became about success or money.
I don't know why it turned into pleasing a lover.
But as soon as it did become about those things, I lost my spark, and suddenly writing was a chore.
I'm done with burning in my small spotlight with nothing flowing on paper,
I just want to be free.
It's time I get back to writing the way I used to.
For my emotion. For my passions. For myself.