I wish that I didn't write these poems.

The incident

I gave up to believe in love after what you had done to me that night. As I toss and turn, counting the nights where I beg to forget what you did. The way you unapologetically, laid your hands on the wrong places of my body, to what was supposed to feel right.

Lust , a form of regret I've yet to have accepted that it is, apart of reality. A fight, for what's right and wrong. Slightest sense of love, sentiment that may be untrue. The body, you abused, used and to choose what you wanted to do- was to take advantage of what I still had left sacred of myself. Pride. Are happy for what you have done? Places you touched of my body, left wounds in my mind; memories of that night.

"Is that not love?" I questioned. You were not love nor were you loved and because of this, I chose to never love as fond ever again.