Another day,
another disappointment
from you.
And yet,
I don't love you any
less.
It stings a little.
But I move on,
for what is one
minuscule sadness
compared to the
rest of the love
I already have.
I do pity
you.
But I barely even remember
that.
Because you're
broken.
And so am I.
And fragmented women can't help
but love
being hurt.
It makes us feel
needed.
We both have our own ways of trying to
heal.
So I get it.
But I can't help the hatred I feel
for her,
putting you in a box.
I would love every part
of you.
I hope one day you will choose you.
I just wish
you loved yourself
the way
I adore
you.
