My Love Language

I can’t tell you who’s words pulled from me my worth. 

I can’t describe for you the setting where my ability to respect self died. 

I no longer know the way home to nourish my soul or to heal my wounds.

I continue, a walking corpse in the sun. Void of those moments to smile and desperate for a guilt free way to abandon the stage. 

I wasn’t taught to love and the only substitute I’ve discovered is to give myself to only those that don’t want me.

With more in common to a discarded plastic bag than the person who discarded it after use. I struggle to define self.

I find no sanctuary in friend or lover. For they confound and confuse me. Kindness has lost its flavor and hope has gone stale to the touch. 

I look for solace in the eyes of those who look through me and find means to transfer to me the short comings of those who trampled the grass before me. 

Kind words keep me up at night and the pain is altogether comforting. A subtle and endless way to remind one self that love is a language not all of us have learned to speak. 

I’ve taught myself that love is empty nights alone while; I try to stitch together the pieces with endless pen strokes. 

Ive forced myself to understand the true nature of romance. And its  to give what will be taken and leave the rest crumbled in a heap on the timeline of life. 

Love empowered heroes and survived the trials of titans. Or so I was told as a naive young man engulfed in the idea that at some point I might find home.

A place with hearth and heart of solace and soul.

Yet as I’ve wandered I’ve learned that the only thing endless about love is my ability to give it away.