I thought I loved from the depth of my bones
But I only loved the concept, my idea of what I thought a lover should/would/could be.
My passion is hollow. Perhaps I’ve never felt anything but a
Dream. Lie. Construct.
Skin-deep, afraid to dive in
Such a talker, not so much a communicator though.
I never knew. I never knew the truth of me.
All fear, all day long
No blood in these veins, only cold dread seeping to the capillaries
From the terror lodged, arteries blocked, heart stopped
A walking talking mannequin declaring herself a catch
Perhaps I still am, despite it all.
Could be improved, though, I’d say.
Joke’s on me, all these years I thought
It was them
It was them.
I was the victim
Turns out, of my own fantasy world
Not their intentions.
I wanted to be better, the good partner
And so I chose poorly, I protected, I upheld my barriers staunchly
While declaring that it was them
As if. It could be. So simple.
Black & white, not a thing, my dear.
I am love, and I am lost, and I am whole.
And I am perfect. But not nearly complete.