Little girl, there are many things you will be.
but,
Broken at the hands of a man is not any of them.

Sometimes, the only person who will be around to pick you up
off the floor
and run you a warm bath will be yourself;
and that's okay.

I've written a dozen poems about you, the curve of your lips when you smile, the glow in your eyes and the spark in your touch.
I've written even more poems about you leaving.
The pain of  being left lovelorn,
And the vast emptiness you left behind.
Now I want to write again.
But there just aren't any words left to say, the ink in my pen has run dry. Because now it doesn't hurt so much, my mind doesn't wander off to you as often as it used to and now you're just more of a dull ache in my chest as compared to the singeing fire you used to be. I don't write to you anymore.
This is farewell.

Virginity should be a choice, not a commodity

Love me for that which is not ephemeral