Convince me why your idea of love
should be something more
than a mere stimulus
befitting a Pavlovian theory
tangled between delusional lies and empty promises
whispered on a cold bed
under sheets that still reek of shame.
I won’t change my mind but
I promise you, I’ll try
even as the memories burn
while I carve a pretty smile
with the jagged edge of a broken heart,
painting scars that will never be
aesthetically pleasing enough
to deceive a world hiding behind eavesdropping walls.
The pen that I hold was never meant to
leak the ink that drowns myself in pity,
yet I find myself crawling back to
unforgiving words that refuse to let me forget
how I’ll always be just
adequate for love, never worthy of it.
But I still try,
seeking solace in exaggerated emotions
hoping one day,
I wont need a sad playlist to get me through
another sleepless night.
Knowing words can’t heal old wounds,
I still wait for time
Although I can’t forge happy endings,
I refuse to be the sad story that my poetry recites.
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