It hurts to be wanted for your company and not your heart,
for someone to want to know you but not to love you.
To stand, fuzzy headed on a busy London street watching hungry eyes dance across your body as inside you start to cry.
Because you know that in a week they’ll start to ignore your texts and in a month it’ll be as if that magic night of compatible minds
You say it’s not me, that I deserve something you just can’t be
That it kills you.
That I’m special.
Yet I will feel redundant and I will feel erased and I will lie in bed, lonely and afraid that this will always be the case.
I will think of ways to be smaller, of how I might shrink myself into something half my size.
Then I will remember, that it is better to stand as one than to stand compromised.
I will wake up to warmer skin and notice how I stand taller, all of a sudden more beautiful than I was before.
And I will try again:
I will give you the benefit of the doubt and throw my cynicism into a bin on the underground.
Because love hurts until it doesn’t.