and still I am unloveable
I falter into falling
giving with a heart
that knows no different
has never felt the sunshine of reward;
the returned feeling.
I fight against the bitter taste
rejection leaves in me
and turn my face into light
thinking the next day will reveal answers
or at least some trace of hope
that has not yet been denied.
And all this swirls into the memories
of the first time you hurt me
a myriad of sorrows
that I've saved to draw upon:
your face: open
your voice: brittle against my ears
saying the words that I have always had thrown at me
how many times will no one want me
how many broken pieces are there left to shatter
and still unloveable
and still I falter.
And I thought: this is how poetry is born. It comes from invisible heights, it is secret and dark in its origins, solitary and fragrant, and like the river it will assimilate whatever falls in its current; it will seek a route between the mountains, and its crystalline song will ripple through the meadows."- Pablo Neruda