Sometimes
It would be easier to think you never loved me.
To call it a hope, unfulfilled.
A dream, undiscovered.
To say it was a charade that fooled us all -
Even you.
But it's harder than that
Because you love me still.
You love me
With more love than you could ever conjure before.
And it hurts.
It hurts you.
When you give more than you knew you could,
And still I ask,
"Where's mine?"
And so you give again until there's nothing left except a stump to sit on.
And like any tree without its green, you decay.
Your roots crumble.
The ground collapses secretly beneath the rain-packed earth
Until a step -
A single misplaced (perfectly placed?) step.
A gentle step? A lumbering step?
It doesn't matter the step because it is the flooding years that have eroded your resolve.
The surface needs only a rift and then it falls.
And it hurts you.
It hurts you
When you watch me flail and fail
And be human.
To be a selfish human who uses you for my own gain.
To be a selfless human who - try as I may - can never save you.
Can never make you forget your pains and broken limbs.
Can never be the rock in your crashing waves.
Can never quite be satisfied in who you were or who you are or who you're becoming.
So, it hurts you.
It hurts you, and it hurts me.
Oh! How it hurts me.
To see this love be the greatest I will receive
With the best of intentions and the evilest of outcomes
That you will always want to blame on me.
Because it hurts you.
