I can’t do it, I’m sorry

I crave love.
The thing about cravings
is that I deliberately have taught myself not to self-indulge.

Some twisted form of self-inflicted pain.
When sweet words seep through their lips, I run like a forgotten faucet.
I run until I’ve run out of room, spilled over counters. I ruin anything within my grasp, which is why I avoided you.

I didn’t want to soak your love-filled bedsheets with my ink like words. I didn’t want your memory of me to be a dark stain that you couldn’t get out, no matter how many times you try to scrub it.

I’m tired of being the story behind new bedsheets

which is why I can’t love you,

 I’m sorry


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