He let her tell him she loved him
He says he doesn’t know what love is
But he knows that he loved her
That he doesn’t me
And that she tainted this thing he doesn't know for him
And now he, for me

This beautiful boy asleep in my arms
Committing his face to memory
By touch
So that if I were blind and he was in a line
I would know it was he who was mine
So I watch and wish and wait
For him to wake,
For us to break

The pain of being reused in the sheets she chose for him
In the hoodie she wore first
Haunted by a ghost who heard the declarations of love he would never make to me
Being the girl who follows in the shadow she cast
Where what she didn’t give him rendered him unable to accept what I could

Why do we feel? How do I stop?

Why do we not take away the pain
But then those in pain cannot
And pain for purpose to warn
But what if the harm is only the pain itself
If what is bad is only that it hurts?
It wouldn’t matter that he doesn’t love me if it didn’t hurt
I don't know what love is anymore,
So I drink
Pretty alcoholism for the ache

Strength? Or masochism
Sacrifice? Or emptiness

He struggles to be with me
I am a struggle to be with
He chose not to struggle

God gives and God takes. Usually takes. God gives and takes and gives back and takes back. God forgive me my unfairness
“It’s not the end of the world if we break up.”
God, I hope he’s right

do you like me (yes)
do you want to be talking to me (not anymore)
is it too much (yes)
am i too much (yes)
am i enough (no)
where is this going (to end)
what do you want (he doesn’t know, except not me)
will you hurt me (yes)
is there someone else (there will be)
do you like me (he did)
do you want me (not enough, not anymore)

The moment I started to think I'm incapable of being loved-
Was it when they took what they wanted, unprovoked?
Came too soon,
Was it when I was "a little bundle
of joy"?
Did I learn then, that I was just
a toy?
Was it then, when my father
walked away?
Was that my price to pay
for being born that day?
How could it be-when I did
nothing wrong?
You left without a word,
left me here all along.
Did I learn it before I could even
speak?

Was it when, the man, old
enough to be my grandfather grabbed my hand?
Did my breath hitch, as he whispered those awful words?
I was barely eleven, it didn't make
any sense,
his breath on my skin, the feeling of his fingertips grasping for mine,
as he'd say with a smile, "Our fingers
are making love,"
Was it the first time?
Or just the first time I remembered?

Was it when the stranger
grabbed my *******?
Was it then I was infested?
Did I learn that hands could only take,
not to give?

Did it start all  too soon?