She is a medicine that I must take in small doses.
A prescription that I've hated the taste of since I started it years ago.
I can't stop taking it now, we've gone so far together,
And I don't want to cause any issues.
If I take my medicine more often than usual,
She will give me stomach aches.
I hate the taste of my medicine,
But if I take it every once in a while, it's tolerable, and I don't mind it.
Then I think about the fact that I'm taking medicine,
And my body aches once more.
If I don't take it, I'm full of guilt.
If I do take it, I'm full of pain.
She is a prescription that will pain me forever

I say I hate you, but it’s a lie, and I’m sorry for it. There could never be a moment where I truly despise you, not even if I summoned all my will to try. It’s not you I loathe, it’s the storm you’ve left raging inside me. I hate the rawness you carve into me, the way your absence coils tight around my chest, stealing my breath and smothering the air. I hate how I sit here waiting for you, silent and small, hoping with every fiber that your name will light up my screen again. I want you to text me, to give me the chance to tell you about the way the sunlight hit perfectly today or to share the words others have spoken to me. I want to tell you how I can’t stop thinking about you, how I ache for you to be here. But part of me wants you to push me away, to block me, to tell me I’m unworthy. To say I’m awful, that you can’t stand the thought of me. Maybe then, I’d have permission to stop craving you, stop needing the space you fill so effortlessly. I hate you. I hate this. But really, I’m lying. I miss you. I love you. And that, more than anything, is what I hate most of all.

I'll write as many love poems as I want,
But the one person they're for,
Will never read them.

While flipping through the pages of our memory book,
I found those dried flowers, and with them, your memory bloomed once again…
That even after all this time, my heart, still aching for you,
Surrendered its fragile hope of living in your yearning and crumbled, drop by drop.

I never usually dream,
But I dream of you
And the fact that I do is torturous.
Perhaps, it is punishment
For what my mind perceives as guilt.
And like every poor sod
I wonder,
Do you think of me too?

Charcoal hands
To hold my ignited love,
The only reciprocity
Is to be maimed & scarred
With flames beyond the fire's control.
Gasoline loves a match-
Bright & hot, destructive, fast.
Burns out to within, and then
It's all exhausted;
Embers smolder to ash.

In the quiet ache of loss,
I find fragments of myself,
Scattered like petals in the wind,
Yearning to be whole again