I'm sick and tired of begging you
And dropping hints isn't enough
But I'll cry my entire heart out
Because this isn't love.

I don't expect much
Not from you, at least
But as many times as I've pleaded
The least you could do is read.

Read the words I wrote in my blood
In phrases I ripped from my soul
See the punctuation I crafted from tears
Notice the warmth of love or hatred's frigid cold.

Know me from this poetry
Because I've instilled my life in them
Judge me or accept me as you read
Reject me or call me a friend.
.
.
.
Or, I suppose, you could refuse
Tell me you'd read them, though that's a lie
And I'll drown in my own insecurity
After you've decided not to read, I'll cry.