I let go.

Because you have.

I don’t feel your warmth.

Only as though I am baggage.

I wish I could tell you how beautiful he made me feel.

His kisses still linger,

his grace,

his charm,

his kindness.

I wish you did too.

But you’re so consumed in your melancholy

That my expectations feel like a chore.

You’re entitled to your wants

But I am not.

I am a burden.

I am a burden you do not want to carry.

You recoil like you’ve been wounded.

And I no longer have the strength to coax you otherwise.

Maybe this is for the best.

My skin.

My skin.

The taste of my skin.

But never my trauma. 

You’re too cynical to feel my warmth.

It’s okay.

I will be okay.

Break my heart,

You can never break my spirit. 

unicorn

You burden me with your unspoken expectations.

Your loneliness.

Your fears.

Your grief.

Your cynicism.

Your hunger for my skin.

And in exchange I ask for nothing.

This is not a transaction.

You owe me nothing, except maybe kindness.

“Tell me what you, how you feel” 

But you never did, you never will. 

So I take all the blame.

Everything is my fault.

It is.

But it is.

My youth.

My naïveté.

My baggage.

My emotional instability.

My brain. My stupid fucking brain.

My expectations. 

My hopes and dreams.

We haven’t hurt each other, 

Only I’ve hurt you.

So you build your walls again.

Leave me out.

I am no longer welcome.

I exit gracefully.

I’m tired.

I no longer have the strength 

And you’ve left me with no other choice.