Maybe I loved an idea.
Maybe I loved a feeling.
If I say that you are just like everyone else,
then I too, will have conformed to my own accusations.
If I say that I hate you,
I’ll become wretched and bitter.
Honestly I thought you were like me,
And maybe we’re too alike.
Because I did love you. The person. The soul.
The soul that was beautiful, unsightly, warm, and scarred.
The soul like mine.
But the love we gave each other was damaged; I found both sadness and clarity in the midst of us.
You couldn’t open your arms, because like me, you fear being vulnerable more than being alone.
Like me, you wear translucent smiles to hide the monster beneath.
Yet we both know that behind this monster is a frightened child, needy and confused.
Maybe we were both just scared runaways with nowhere else to turn.