I always knew
I was more broken
than you.

You once told me
that I was too closed off,
I was only ever happy.
I told you I had no reason
to be anything but.

You looked so afraid
at that reply.

“Everyone has feelings”
You told me.
I shrugged and replied,
“not me.”

Maybe it didn’t work
because we were both writers:
too romantic.
too disillusioned.
too cynical.

I remember knowing
how broken I was
even as a 5 year old:
refusing to believe in Santa,
allowing aeroplanes
to land in my mouth
out of pity.

Mother told me,
“You’re a Christian.”
and I took her word,
growing up praying to
a Greater Power
I didn’t believe in.

But sometimes
I catch myself praying
and hoping, desperately,
(hoping)
that someone would help.

Maybe that’s why
when I refuse to believe in love
but hang on and hope
that there’s good in everyone
and commit myself to someone
I know doesn’t exist
or who exists only in my subconscious,

I’m an idiot, aren’t I?