The Hopeless Romantic...

You lust me,
But you love me not.

I want to know your deepest secrets, and the passions that make your heart soar.
I want your love so much..
oh so much,
that it brings me to the floor.

I want to sleep next to you,
and write sweet poems about you when I can't sleep through the night.

Then I want to read them to you,
while you're awake,
So you can hold me tight.

But instead you choose the other girl.
Because you always do.

You'll swipe up on my pictures,
and tell me sweet nothings you think I want to hear...
Lust after my body,
as if my mind wasn't here.

I'm the girl you lust after,
not the girl you love.

I'm a hopless romantic,
because I know i'll never find someone who loves me for me...

It's been awhile since I thought about love.
I closed myself off to it,
And have yet to open up that door.

But I think about it now.
That must count for something,
Or maybe nothing.
But it's on my mind.

Love is a vulnerable place,
so intimate,
it's hard to find.
Made impossible to search for,
behind the door.

The one I closed.
Because I was too scared of the unknown.

But I have hope that i'll open it again one day.

I'll take it one day at a time.

I never write love poems.
I think it's because I'm afraid to

open up & feel so vulnerable.
I'd have to look inside my heart,
to write something beautiful,
intimate,
and heartfelt.
I'd have to embrace the warmth,
and reflect on the lingering traces,
of the hand once in mine.
The love that once had it's time.

I'm afraid to confront those feelings.
I'm afraid to commit to love,
even if it's the everlasting type,
where two stars collide,
in the afterlife,
like they did milleniums before.

I've been hurt so deeply.
In ways I haven't felt before.
I'm not sure I can take it anymore.

But I dream of not being afraid of love.
One day,
I'll write love poems.
I'll find the person worth writing lines,
and stanzas about.
One that makes me forget we're in a drought.

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

Why am I always the second option?
But not the first?

I want to be loved.
I want to give love.

But instead,
I find hurt.
So I give hurt.