We barter a handful of memories,
for a heart full of sorrow.
As we have done for centuries,
future happiness we borrow.

We measure our capacity for love,
with a defiled metre stick of self-image.
Never trading with those they see above,
because what is already broken is difficult to damage.

There is not much that can compete,
with the feeling of being desired.
Once we lose it, we feel incomplete,
like a crossword puzzle being retired.

And with that pain left behind,
we forget the world right ahead.
Up in arms against our minds,
down-and-out, we feel dead.

Here comes another I refuse to trust,
lest my heart be crumbled to dust.
Yet when I caught her eyes,
all past wounds she did cauterise.

This time I say it true:
Bartered love - I hate you.