If I had asked you how you knew that you loved me,
you would have said, “Because it hurts.”
And I already knew that pain too well
—-because I was pulling out my hair in the shower
—-and biting back tears
every time you turned your back on me.
I already knew how much it ached
——–to be missing you
——–and hating you at the same time,
and no amount of crying into my pillow changed you.
Time was torturing me:
I had forgotten how it felt to smile,
how it felt to sing to a love song,
how to stop crying so I could sleep.
I seemed to forget everything
————————except you.
And even though you hugged me,
———with tear stained eyes,
admitting, “I love you,”
———(as if I hadn’t known all along),
you still left me empty when you walked out.
——For months I thought I was living without you,
but I wasn’t living at all,
———-and I knew this when
his lips touched mine and they weren’t right
because they weren’t yours.
I wanted to tell you that I missed you,
———————————(needed you),
but my friends
convinced me that you were cancer of the heart.
And it wasn’t until you lifted me up
almost a year later,
————–kissed my face
——and told me (finally) that you were sorry,
that I realised that if love was hurt,
like you said,
then you were hurting me more than I could handle.
But, if loving you was hurt,
then I would bathe my body in pain
——–before giving you up
——— (again).


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