I still love you. I still love you like you’ve never hurt me. I love you as ferociously and intensely as the first time I saw you. I thought the feeling was mutual. Perhaps not.
I admit—my love is messy. It smears everything in sight and leaves its stench. My love is clumsy. It bumps into everything and apologizes excessively. My love will get on your nerves. You will want to push it away but embrace at your lowest. You will give it a second glance when no one else can stand the sight of you.
And yet and still I love you. I love you like a song that makes me remember you and cry. I love you like a poem I utter sweetly, quietly, and bashfully under my breathin hopes that you may hear. I lie alone at night wanting to feel you next to me in incubating in someone else.
So I sit here and wait but I’m starting to think that you don’t love me like I love you. You break my heart every time. So, I’m going to give you up for now in hopes that you will find your way back to me. I can’t do this by myself anymore. It’s exhausting. I don’t want to end up hating you.
Waiting Distress P.S. I’m putting a condom on my heart and fucking my feelings. Pardon my french but the bitch is back. You will be hella lucky if I let you back in again!
P.S. I’m not going to wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. Until you reveal yourself, my heart will be in hiding. I dare you to find it.