"I love you," you tell Her,
in a voice far too strong for it to be any kind of confession;
practised and perfected, spat out on your command.
"I love you," you say again,
and it doesn't sound like love.
It never has.
You keep lists of Her every mannerism, of the two of you's every exchange.
They fill the gaps of your I-Love-Yous, solidify the foundation,
so you can trick yourself into believing there's something strong there.
You use them to fill-in-the-blanks on other love poems.
Poems written for other girls and other boys,
poured from the heart of another lover.
You scream love to the world
because you are so desperate to convince that your love is not hollow.
The world listens.
And yet, She is unphased by your emptiness.
Middling heart, stale brain, and predictable love.
You're the only one falling (for it).
fuck you and your plagiarism - (10/01/18 - 00:02)