warm honey ▸ poetry

14 Hitlist

"He loves me."

No he doesn't.

He loves her.

I'm sorry to say that he will never love you the way you love him, for he is a boy.

And boys, my dear, don't love with their hearts.

They love with their eyes.
They love with their hands.
They love with their words.

I'm sorry to say that he will never love you in the same sweet and tender way you love him, for he is a boy.

And boys, my dear, are neither sweet nor tender.

They are rude.
They are greedy.
They are deceiving.

And as for their love?

Why, my dear, their love is made of the sharpest shards of glass and the hottest fires of hell. It is a selfish love.

I'm sorry to say that he will never love you the way you deserved to be loved, for he is a boy.

And boys, my dear, get bored quite easily.

They get bored of what they have,
so they throw it away.
They throw away their diamond and go back to sifting through the rocks.

I'm sorry to say that he will never love you the way he says he does, for he is a boy.

And boys, my dear, have a habit of lying through their teeth.

They make you feel like the only girl in the world before turning around and doing the same for the next girl in line.

He doesn't love you.

He never did.

You were just another girl on his hitlist.