I am broken and sobbing into my mother's arms. I typically never let anyone but my bed feel my tears.
The only thing I can force out is the fragmented sentence, "Why can't he love me?"
And the only response she seems to come to is that "Maybe you're not his type."
But that is not a good enough reason for me,
Because when we first met he wasn't my type.
He was shy and mysterious,
Dark hair with complementary dark eyes,
-Very much like me;
I typically don't go for people like me.
But somehow, over time, he soon became the one person for which I wanted to spend my days and nights.
He rewrote my type.
He became what I wanted.
I've spent my every day since then, trying to do the same for him:
To show him I was what he wanted,
He just didn't know it yet.
But my mothers words cross my mind again:
"Maybe you're just not his type."
And it seems, all I can think of that is
"How is it fair that I'm not his type,
When he is mine?"
Because I know his type. And I know I would be his type. If he would just open his eyes to mine.
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Poems
Poetry"I know that sometimes for people, I feel like too much; But let me kiss away the phantom pain that the scars remind you of, Let me kiss the burns on your hands, From when you touched the burning fire within my soul. Let me show you that yes, I am...
