Perhaps the actual problem is the inexcusable
I have taught myself to love people.
If my heart was a flower it would be
an anomaly born without sepal or petals.
Whole pieces of my soul-gold invested
inside the bank of someone else’s heart.
I mean, Aphrodite never shows up at school,
book in hand, teaching love as the only real art.
There are no classes in the coping with the loss
of whole people, no warnings left on memory’s tombs.
They say love is what makes the world go round,
but no one ever leaves a note for us in the womb.
No instruction manual when we are born,
nor a how-to guide on the correct way to fall.
Nor one on how to barter pieces of yourself
without losing an eternity inside someone else’s
I’m afraid this is why I have always been so lost.
I have been loved, and I have loved
but I never learned how to gracefully bear the
In Which I Admit I Love