I love being alone.
I find myself beautiful.
Somewhere along the way I learned
that I was not allowed to love myself.
I thought it vanity?
But I am beautiful.
I am capable of beautiful things.
I am capable of beautiful love.
And I refuse to not love myself— beautifully.
I am the only one truly deserving— unconditionally.
My love is mine.
It is earned— but freely given.
How terrible to try so hard to not love yourself.
How it must rip one into two.
No wounder I felt so alone— incomplete.
You cannot be yourself
while withholding your love
from its own source...

Every expression I make towards you is poetry.
Everything I've ever felt for you was poetry.
Don't you know that you're always reading my poems?
Have you not noticed my beauty— even once?
Were you really never stunned by me?
Impossible.
I shined so brightly for you.
But I was only ever the moon in your eyes (—the sun— remember?).
I stood before you— powerful.
It was a meeting of two equals— two goddesses— two lovers— two beings—
But I was wrong.
And you were weak.
Bow down before your queen.

I was always alone.
Is that the secret?
Or
I was never alone.
Or
There is no secret.
Is that it?

Were you never really here?
Or
You were right here
And you left anyway?
Or
You were right here
And you just never fucking saw me?
Is that it?

Truly
Righteous and godly
People surround me.

Why do I keep giving my heart to people who are so unworthy of my friends?

Why did I trust you?
Why did I trust him?
Who is he?
Did we ever even meet?

I don't know how to write
about you in the third person anymore.

Who is "he"?

He is gone.
You are nobody.

He is gone.
It's over.
He is gone. It's quite likely he was never here.

I loved you.
Loved— a verb— a struggle.

I love you still.
Love— a noun— a book.

You opened boxes,
but I smashed through buildings—
entire structures— neural pathways.

Undone— by us.
Undone— a falling with no end,
undone