For me

 It’s the desperate way that my brokenness cries for my vulnerability to be unfed.

It is the bitter demand of anger and rage. 

It is me saying love doesn’t have a name.

I should have told you, often times than once; that my soul has died and my heart has been ripped apart.

I shouldn’t have tried to say you can make me smile. 

They say when we find love, we would love it and live it.

It’s not the same with me. 

For me, when I find love, I have to burn it. 

Usually, we put other end into consideration. 

Like is this what you want or are we in delusion? 

I should have mentioned, I don’t know how, I don’t know how to do that love thing. 

So, I am wondering if you would like to find someone else who wants this. 

Maybe I am lost. This feels like undiluted madness. 

But I painted a picture in my head, of how I could call and tell you that I am scared. 

And you would be there to tell me all is well. 

Or not.