Sometimes I feel like there's a hole inside of me, an emptiness at times that seems to burn, an emptiness that even the warmest of hearts cannot melt.

It's a collation of the most intangible things. I think if you lifted your ear to my heart, you could probably hear the ocean.

"Love yourself," you say. But haven't you heard, the path to self-love is shaky and under construction? It's creaky and unstable, and anyone who tries to step foot onto that path, slips and falls, and dies tragically. You either win or die trying.

"Love me, then." I did. I did love you. You were like my sweetest downfall, bitter but relishing. I could give you seas but you fight for lakes. Who am I to stop you? I don't think I can love you again.

Do you remember our love notes? They were folded like little hearts, the way you liked it. Do you remember when you left? The ink smudged, and it tattooed my skin with broken love.

The scars you left on my heart burn more fiercely than any other I have given myself. So, do you get it? I can't love you again.