I only loved.
Not because I was good at it.
I failed at everything else.
Friends, enemies, strangers, faces I knew,
men, women—it didn’t matter.
I loved them all.
Hard. Broken. Reckless.
The world tried to teach me
its rules, its tricks, its ways to win.
I listened. Nodded.
Failed every time.
Especially when it came to the heart.
I never learned anything else.
Except this: how to stand
next to someone
and be honest.
Distance? Forget it.
Honesty stuck to me like tar,
and I couldn’t shake it.
Cunning, deceit—never in me.
I chose love.
I said it,
even as it ate me alive.
No complaints.
What I had was enough to live.
Humanity stayed in me.
Friendship stayed.
Even with their coldness,
I kept showing up.
I keep showing up.
For love.
I drowned in their love.
They just watched.
When I left,
they stared.
I only loved.
Everything else? I failed.
Some said I wasted my life.
I call it living.
Sometimes joy, sometimes pain,
always, unflinchingly, alive.