1/13/19
I want to fix him.
He doesn't have struggles, claims he doesn't feel pain.
But I see it in his eyes, his heart is
burning,
shattered,
adrift,
broken by those who he thought treasured him most.
Those who swore love upon his soul then lead him to his grave.
His care for others is stronger than he puts out.
His skin screams, his lips simultaneously uttering gently.
He has no desire for aid, as he feels his complications shall be kept away.
All in attempts to halt the destruction of his psyche.
But aside from the world of affliction he'd been born into,
the consignment of warmth leisurely deepens inside him.
And despite that, I still feel a taunting sentiment of doubt when speaking to him.
I have convinced myself that my valuation is undersized.
Consider my desires beyond the bounds of possibility.
There seems to be a lack of mutuality in my love for him.
He's far too severed to mind me.
A vexatious infatuation is what I'd call my fondness of him.
My body has ached for his presence, my mind has pleaded for release.
For my notions caged the entirety of my welfare and vanished it.
In simpler words,
when my heart said yes,
our set of conditions said no.
Or maybe it was simply he who refused to endear me.
And who am I to empathize with myself?
For my inexhaustible devotion promoted the mutilation of my mentality.
