I was trying to convince myself that writing about love could almost feel the same as being loved. I’d keep writing, hoping that love would radiate from the page and we could all feel something. But these words feel nothing like a warm hug. Because we all need to be seen, heard, and touched. Loved. That’s what stops the ache and fills the empty spaces.
We all need more than just words. I would rather feel something real than read something real.
And now it’s all so clear to me. I get why you never cared for my poetry.
The choice of hurting me to protect yourself from more pain, I couldn’t comprehend it then. I thought fighting for your love was admirable then.
I’m not saying I’d do anything differently like putting less of my heart and soul into these things. But I get it now. Every warworn part of me gets it.
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