When I wept for myself,
I felt such shame.
I wept for you
in hopes you would see,
that my love is not for naught
and felt no shame.

And now, the skies seem to rise.
But my heart felt down,
felt pitiful.
And I chased your shadow,
day in, day out
in the hopes of divine intervention
and in the blindness of being pitiful.

So why am I
so kind, so blind?
Why love a man like you,
whose for all has not seen me
or fragments of my shadow.
Or whose for all made me
shameful and
distressed for the pity that I feel.

But why blame you,
when in the first place,
there is none to blame
but I
who felt compelled to you,
who felt a need for you,
who felt she could have you,
who thought she could be.

She could be the one.
But, no.
Because I'm too ashamed.
Because I have nothing
left to love this soul
of mine,
nothing to give
but the pity that I feel.


So how much more,
a love that I should give to you.
What can I,  a void
in your peripheral, do?
For I can't love myself,
so much more, you.