I bet you write for the likes.
I bet you write for the shares, the validation found in a virtual thumbs up.
I bet you only love for the sake of material, so much so that you self-sabotage every relationship you’ve ever been in to gain just one more Facebook fan.
I bet you write about every guy whom you meet; whore your words out to anyone who would take them.
I write because I’d rather carve words on paper than on skin.
You forget that words can be as sharp as any two-edged sword
but instead of the floor, I’ve found that it is more acceptable to bleed onto paper.
I would give all these words back if I could save myself from all that heartbreak
I would return these perverse creations in a heartbeat for one good shot at being loved.
You think that you mean nothing, that you are just another post on my wall, an allusion in an Instagram post.
I wrote about you because I knew that I couldn’t keep you.
That no matter what I say or do, you will always say goodbye before sunrise.
I wrote about the fleeting moments that had us in it as an act of defiance against the ephemeral nature of this life.
I wanted to immortalise you on paper and in ink because in time, my memory will betray me.
And I don’t want to to forget
I wrote to keep you alive
for the only way to live forever is to have a writer fall in love with you.
But I don’t blame you.
Like everyone else, you read these words, these emotions like exhibits in a museum of bad examples
You walk through these halls and see my pain on its walls.
And when you are ready, you leave.
No one walks through a museum and asks it if it’s okay.