A part of you goes away ,
Everyday,
To never come back again.
And what is left in you,
Are the scars of yesterday.
The promises, the kisses,
The love you once felt,
The nights, the stars,
The life you once wanted,
The touches, the smells,
The laughs, the tears,
It all goes away,
Everyday.
And what is left in you,
Are the scars of yesterday.

Do I believe there is love?
Of course
Yet it is hard to say that I have experienced such a thing
And in that it is just as hard to try and justify to anyone that there is, in fact, love

I do not know what is sadder: That I have not experienced love or the way I am responsive to it

I know who I am supposed to love
But it is no love that I can tell

But this is the truth:
I know of hate
Hatred I believe in
Hatred I am all too familiar with

I suppose I could be so enveloped in my own self-hatred
Comparing all other things to me that I love almost anything and anyone

So from my conclusions I extract this:
Because I participate in the deepest and most strewn out of hate
I know that it exists
Therefore, love, comparative to my involvement in hate, can only lead me to an assumption:

If hatred exists, then so must love

Talking so happily
Helping, hugging, loving
Giggle very silly
Tickle, wiggle, squeal

Blushes abound, all around
Their love is different
They help each other stand their ground
With snuggles under the blanket

One cries, the other consoles
Back rub, cheek kiss, compliment
They don't feel like two wholes
Just two parts of a family

you know from the moment
you
stop feeling beautiful
she said it
wasn't suppose to matter
and
I always want
what's
gone

& you're always gone
so what's beautiful
without your forearm
without our throats
& when I can't hear you

cause I'm not writing poetry
I'm filing a complaint
in a love letter
to your name

She's very much alive
But she is dead to me
The decision wasn't mine
She wanted to be
A tombstone in my mind
A grave inside my heart
A perpetual funeral
That has no end or start
There is no wreath to set
No flowers to lay
The only place that this exists
Is buried in my wake

it's
not enough
and
it
never will be;

but
it's never wasted
and
won't soon
be forgotten.