1

He never knew how to love me

But I was a complicated mind

I had my own little darkness.

I kept it in a jar, cultivated it 

but only on occasions.

Those dark days left me weeping

left me to be the person I am today

who listens to Chopin on Sunday nights

and cries of her romantic failures

her love that grew sour,

and steadily keeps growing

more twisted, more deformed, dysfunctional

demented; the list could go on endlessly 

The only thing that never changed

was the truth that the boy,

whom I loved so fiercely,

who I, without a doubt, truly believe

he wanted to love me,

didn't.

He knew the poetry of my body

word for word, he could appreciate the art

but there was more, there is more, to me 

than the poetry I longed to be, all I forced myself to see

I blinded myself to the things I am:

the dirt that lays deep in the cut, 

the one that manifests into an infection;

I was spreading, rotten

but I was there. I was real.

I was a girl, and I had things

hidden deep within, hurts I still

cannot find--for now--

I was so much more than a poem.

But he only liked to read.

Author's Note

Prelude No.4