I write about myself
To romanticize my being into metaphors
In order to love myself.
But between pages and poems
No amount of inked memories
Will satisfy my love lust.
No one can love me enough for the both of us.
I am stuck in singularity,
Surrounded by finite fake love.
My heart is aching
and breaking
But is too timid to mend itself.
It's in these times that my reflection
Becomes unbearably repulsive.
When loving myself means loving parts of me
That I wish I could be.
When tears stream because I cannot become the me I want to be.
