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?”