I might be broken, it might be your fault

Did you break me?

I can’t seem to find who I was before when I wrote all those words of love,

when you were on the tip of my tongue

whether it was at your lips or against your hips.

You never saw them, nobody did,

but I could write them as if the words were howling to be born.

The thoughts rushed through me and fought to be first spilled,

each wanted to echo the passion you stirred in me.

I’m unable to love that way now.

I’ve tried.

There have been chances.

Even now with a girl lovely and sweet.

She’s like a daisy.  She’s so pretty and her mind is so innocent.

I want to pick her and save her for only me.

I think I did already,

although I’m not sure I’m good for her.

I think I might be broken and it might be your fault.

I wonder if my heart has a gash down its side and everything in it that allowed me to love so deeply has been slowly drained.

I don’t love her like I love you.

Loved you?  Love you.

How can something be fixed when the piece that held it together will never come back?

There are no perfect metaphors though,

I’m just broken; my heart, my mind and my will.


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