I listened to your latest rap, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.
How terrible it is that the only raps in which I am the muse are of broken hearts and tragedy.
How terrible it is that I think this may be more beautiful than what I had with you this time last month.
You said you were getting over me though, and
I’m struggling to grip onto reality, for my hope is blinding
me too dramatically and my heart wants so desperately
to not believe you.
I can’t afford to let you go,
not to my core,
for fear of letting my feelings harden anymore,
over this.
We’re both volatile, but what we’ve shared was
real.
You are real.
And I feel that you’d told me otherwise,
fed me some scrambling apologetic lies,
over the sake of granting each other freedom—
pseudo-altruistic *******, trust me, love, I didn’t need ‘em.
I didn’t ask that you’d set me free,
merely that you be with me;
it’s just you I need.
But I will wait, because neither of us has really said
goodbye,
and I don’t doubt that those parting words will die
before they ever reach one another, and after waiting,
I will try,
again.
But until then,
at least I’ve made you feel something.
At least you’ve made me feel something, and
how terrible I feel for loving it so much.