Love used to be a motivator.
A reason to dress nice and act on my best behavior.
A reason to be sweet and buy roses.
A reason to be the best I could be.
Now love just haunts me.
Follows me everywhere.
In her eyes and in her smile.
I know it's there.
I just don't want it to be.
I've always been inviting to love.
Just not this time. Not her.
Because I'm not risking her.
For kissing and cuddling.
What we share may not be heartfelt love.
But it is something I can't live without.
I wouldn't bet my life or soul or body.
So why bet her?

The great escalation of feeling and love
can never replace the jarring, falling feeling of disappointment.

That's the thing about secrets.
We bottle them up, and watch as they eat us up.
Corroding our bodies from the inside to the out.
We have to let them out. We have to let one person know.
Then two. Then three. Then four.
Then we're sitting alone wondering where everything went.
All because of the words in our heads.

There's a selfish nature to suicide.
One that's often ignored.
In one's hasty retreat from
pain, hatred, and unhappiness,
many are left standing
to pick up the pieces.
Parents, siblings, friends, coworkers,
Those who cared,
all left with nothing but happy memories.