If I ever were to describe myself, I would be despondent.
Never happy when alone.
When with others, I would be absorbed into their feelings.
But really, my feelings couldn't be faced.
If I ever could depict my past, The painting would be bland.
A lone grey figure struck against a white wall.
The child without love nor maternal instinct.
Paying for survival with absolute compliance.
If I ever told you what I was thinking right now, I'd be lying.
Surrounded by a thousand paper target in a warehouse.
Suffering through your interrogation.
And you dare call it conversation.
I remember shouting at myself.
Decreeing my own hell.
Whispering in that sullen terrifying voice.
"You are the epitome of nothing, unable to love or be loved."
In truth, I was loved.
I was loved and cared for.
My love, was conditional, it was always paid for.
And for that payment I will never love back.
If I ever wrote you a poem, disregard it.
My words are better off in the sea.
Closing the book on my heart.
You, who loved me.
I, who needed you.
The question on how you treat your peers. Is how you use them. But how you treat you love is more difficult, whether you see them as tools or as people.