Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. 

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky 

When I write

I'm a messy heap of emotion,
That's how it always starts.
This time the familiar twangs of heartbreak pull me apart.
I'm writing tonight because they tell me
I'm weak if I share this with him,
If I want to be near him.
I still feel connected to him.
Lucky to have ever met him.

Tonight and every night since last I saw him
I crave no other contact.
I choose to not be over him.
I don't want to forget the magic.
His energy
His scent
His inner conflict and outer peace
His tender touch and thoughtful banter.
The way we talked about everything
and the way we never needed to say anything.

Get over him
They say
You deserve better
He said
Fuck you
I thought

What is better than a love that makes you want to be the best you?
There is beauty in this twisted world.
The flowers bloom,
The butterflies flutter by
Still
Every. Damn. Day.

But

He doesn't want you
They say
I miss him
I say
I miss you too
He says?

Or is that part of the game?

---

Yet

For the first time in my life, not only am I not afraid of being alone
But I prefer it.
I'm not afraid of meeting someone
But I don't.
I'm not afraid of hurting
But I do.
I'm just not afraid
Of this
Of me.