I am selfish, I am needy,
I am weak but I won’t cry;
I’m undeserving of your sympathy,
But I've got no other lies.

Our memories hold little nostalgia,
And you’d seldom care to dwell
‘Pon them, yet the story is written –
Cover bound and faded and dull.

All the bloodstains on the pages,
Old, tattered paper bearing scars,
The cursive writing smudged now –
Under years and years of bars.

See the letters (carefully written),
By your majestic hand,
Woven of elegance, you so delicate
With all your rings and bands.

It was war then: **** then comfort –
So fragile and ornate,
And I wonder, even to this day,
Why you don’t seem to hate.

You’re a light, dear – my hope – even here.
You are warm, you’re like the sun;
I’m a sunflower, but I’m so cold –
I crave your heat, your glow, your touch.
And contrary to popular belief,
I find it’s love that is best served cold,
Since the loving of another
Is a most pressing chore to hold.

Yes, I know you shouldn't help me.
I shouldn't take advantage of you.
But I’m broken. And I love you.
It’s not poetry but it’s true.

Well, at least I assure you I’m real,
Though our roots are bitter and drear;
Still they soak up all the blood here,
For in time, all wounds can heal.

Cry again, dear, if it helps you,
And I’ll try my best not to see
Past the origins of right and of wrong -
If you’ll just stay with me.