The brokenhearted

I think I was naïve and thought love would come easily. I believed in the beauty of the world and I believed it would bring me love.

I believed I could create love if I could hold it in my heart. And if I would pour my heart out, it would become love.

So I poured my heart out to anyone who asked. Not knowing how much they enjoyed being served. No laws protect matters of the heart, no crime committed for unfeeling.

Now it seems like a lifetime of lovers who just watched me bleed until my heart dried out. Only to fill me up with the pain of this awareness that I was wrong.

I find these tokens, these drawings and letters strewn across old journals, from myself to me somewhere in time. I can not face that I have known this for so long and yet hidden the truth from myself. I refuse to see that all I have ever wanted is the comfort of being held closely and the promise of never being left alone.

I don’t know what flows through my veins anymore. My heart doesn’t feel the same. I built this sacredness for myself. You can call me a fool to believe it will be sacred for the rest of the world. You can call me liar for believing I did not desecrate it.

Pages and pages of words to the brokenhearted who die young. Pages of love letters to those who never returned.

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