With apathy,

I am happy.

…

Without apathy,

I am horribly frustrated,

restless,

occasionally disheartened

where I am not myself.

But so unarguably alive

thrillingly animated;

unmistakably blissful;

So utterly

in love.

Not being able
to kiss your tears away
for the first time,
because I was
the one whose careless heart
sent them streaming down your cheeks
in the first place

kills
me.

I can’t summon
the ability
nor motivation
to do the
simplest act as
lifting a pencil
to write poems
I may only read
nor finding the words
to speak
the novels I used to be
so fond of.
I want to care like
The bees care about the flowers
Or the way lips
Care about kisses.
I simply just
Cannot.

I look, appalled, at my hands
at my mouth
for the things they've done to you
denying my only promise to myself,
that you being hurt
would not be of my own doing.

Trying to tear away the skin
that holds memories
I wish hadn't happened
never works, I've learned.

But how does one,
ever forgive themselves
for something like
what i've done to you.