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.