They burnt the inside of my stomach,
as the butterflies begged to get out.
But they only travelled with the wind
as you refused to hold them.
As you refused to hold me.
How is it that the two of us can feel
so mind numbingly different,
when I only feel one thing for you.

Your palms.
Stained pink with all the things you touch,
but not stained of me.
My mind tangled with thousands of threads
all leading to your cheeks.
The books that you write
are filled with things that bring you happiness
yet you refuse to write of me.
My stories are filled with my joy
and all the pages simply of your name.
This makes it worse,
when you rip out the pages.

It was when you hurt me most
that I realised.
I no more,
wanted to be loved by you
but just be loved in general.