I’ve loved and that led to pain.

That pain became a stain that left me insane.

“Was I angry or empty?”

“Was it real and can I ever heal?”

My love was imperfect and maybe that led to the disconnect

Maybe that qualified the disrespect.

But then I sit and wonder,

“How can an imperfect being love without bleeding?”

Disheartened, I became hardened.

Philophobia became my reality.

Surely love shouldn’t be synonymous with pain,

But what if it is?

“Will I never love again?”