Why can’t I let myself be
happy?
Why is it that
every time something absolutely
PHENOMENAL
happens,
my mind starts to
beat
me
down
into a
******, messy pulp?
Why does it hurt to be
happy?

He hugged me.
Said I was sweet.
But yet I’m not
ecstatic as I should be.
Perhaps it’s my ability to see that
we will never happen?
My ability to see that it was
nothing?
Just pity.
He pitied me,
pitied my poem.
I poured out my
heart and soul,
and gave it to him on a
golden platter.
Yet he feels
nothing
in return.
He only said it was sweet
because he felt
sorry;
sorry that it had to be
him.
He only hugged me
because he felt
pity.
I’m just a
charity case.
Nothing
more.