Nine months, four weeks, and one day ago, I confessed. But to you, it was probably last October— if even that. It wasn’t the first time I’d confessed, No, I’d done it more than a hundred times, Each time wishing—no, begging—for shared feelings. You didn’t need to love me To the degree to which I loved you. That couldn’t even be considered— Being loved with such devotion, My day based around your attention, My smile on the number of texts I received, And my appetite on the happiness you brought me? That would be insane; no one could love As strongly as I can. It’s okay to just reciprocate an ounce— A dram of love would keep me satisfied For eternity and beyond. Just a dram was enough for me, And yet, I never even received A pinch of love from your heart, Affection from your hands, Or praise from your lips. Exactly nine months, four weeks, and one day ago, I confessed. It wasn’t the first time, but it was my last. I confessed that I couldn’t do it anymore, I couldn’t continue wishing to be loved, Cherished, or appreciated. I made a different confession from my first, Yet it was the only one you listened to.
