I heard the other day that love doesn't exist.
I was livid and spoke sour of their words,
as if 'I love you' was something I usually heard.

I sat in my bed that night
and thought about every 'I love you' I'd been missing

I thought to myself that love couldn't exist
and the last bit of your love was dripping off my skin
and that the last time you said 'I love you' was in pity and for pretend.

I sit in my desk now and write this rant-like piece,
knowing that my legs are sore
from my hips to my knees.

I think to myself that love couldn't exist,
if I cant even love myself enough to protect my own skin.

That if love existed, my heart wouldn't yearn,
even after all the nasty things I heard
that never failed to make me so sure
of the loss I had when I broke your heart.

If love didn't existed I wouldn't feel this burn
Love existed, I just couldn't be yours.