Lie on the flaw

It’s true.

Nobody has ever loved me

in such a way that allows me to love myself.

It’s truer.

The flaw is not those who are loving,

rather my belief that their loving controls my own.



She was a thousand words

I could not find.

She was the perfect sentence

inked in an unpublished book.

She was countless unwritten poems

on the tip of my tongue.

She was the unopened letters

in the envelope of my skin.

She was…

she is.

She stays missing

to exist.