the more i open up to love
the more i remember
why i do not allow myself its folly:
what they have had
and what they shall want,
i have never been privy to
and i can not give,

for my hubris is
to feel love and to want to give it
but not be fortunate enough
to make one reciprocate;
i was broken before.
or i would argue
i was made to break.

i love you,
but it is the worst that i can do—
to burden you with yearning,
my love is nothing but pesteration.
you deserve the world,
and even more of it;

i apologize for my frailty,
but if the day comes
that i find myself worthy to love:
i hope you accept
this gift and cherish it;
i seek of nothing in return.

yet, in the end,
i could only hide
the myriad of things
i want to say
in words, haphazardly,
and hope you see

what it was
that i had to tell.

interesting to see
how i grew up and came to be;
what i wrote, how i spoke.
no one euphemism fits
yet i shall try to describe:

like a reptile that shed its skin and kept it,
like a keepsake, which at one time was cherished
but now left to weather by the windowsill.
like seeing the scars
from the wounds you know you dealt yourself,
ones you still call beautiful despite all the horror.

it's the closest to seeing how angsty and in your head you were,
how you felt everything, even the nothing,
how you so desperately wanted to crawl out of your skin,
and you still sometimes do.
you read those words and feel like
those words were never yours.
but they are.

at least now you know you've changed;
not where you wanted to be,
but farther than where you once were;
and that, i think, is beautiful.