done writing all this ‘good’ poetry about you.
No more bestsellers feasting off my pain,
reveling in my discomfort,
placing sunshine on my rain.
I worked hard for these emotions,
put in good time for this hurt.
These are the results of all my trust and all my faith—
all the work.
So, let me keep my pain for awhile,
forget letting it all out,
it’s mine—no doubt.
But it seems everyone who hears ‘your’ poem
wants to comfort it all away—
let her stay.
Me and pain have known each other so long,
we are beginning to be friends,
now you want me to send her away
with all these silly poems,
I don’t need to release,
I don’t need any friends,
only to be subjected to this vulnerability again—
only to lead to more pain in the end.
Might as well get used to her being around,
I’ve found her some good use.
Pain is my guard protecting my heart from
moving on to anyone else,
protecting my heart from being sucked into the trap
and from being seduced,
basically, protecting my heart from loving another you.