Love is the lie that keeps us alive.

So maybe I haven't been living.

All my poems are repetitive.

I'm not like other writers with beautiful vocabulary that makes people swoon.

My poems have no rhythm.

They're jarring, just like my emotions.

They're chaotic, lacking a singular focus.

How do I explain in poetic terms how I miss you?

Do I say that your melodic laugh danced across my ears like birds singing in the warm embrace of spring?

I've never been in love.

I repeat that in multiple poems, in those exact words.

I've told you all time and time again that I've never been in love because truthfully, I wouldn't know if I was.

My own heart is a mystery even to myself, and I don't have the will to play detective.

Maybe one day my poems won't be depressing.

Maybe my words will flow smoothly.

Maybe I won't be some teen boy laying in his bedroom, wondering why exactly he exists.

Maybe I'll make it to 18.

Maybe I'll make it out of here.