Thinking back at the wasted words,
Those I received and relished,
But never deserved.
Filling myself with false hope,
That maybe one will be different,
But all pine after the same thing.
Convincing myself relentlessly
that I’m worthy of love every time it fails.
But.
My heart has been battered and bruised,
From all the silly ‘I love yous’
heard when skin meets skin and never heart meets heart.
So that every time I’m touched,
the mind readies itself for the craved words
Since all it knows is touch means love.
With every ‘love’ I neglect the only heart I have
that cries out to me with every new crack.
That symphony plays on repeat.
Yet with my power, I don’t turn it off,
I let it play-hoping someday,
It’ll stop with a spluttering cough.
So I await the one that’ll readily take on my job,
And mend the heart that I allowed to break,
Since I fear I’ll do it all over again.