It is a knife to my heart to know she will never, can never feel the way I do for her. The twist of the knife is of my own doing, for I am the one who so vehemently refuses to confess the things I feel. I am a coward for hiding a love so pure from the person who ignites the very feeling.
   The songs I sing are hers, the notes I play for her, the words I type because of her. She can take it all although she will never have to. She will simply take it from my giving hands.
    She'll never know how I feel and I'll never tell, loathing her for not noticing. So please, I'm begging, take these words as my confession.