Delicate Mind

Does it matter?

Does she care?


Does she know that for her, I live in pain?

Does it matter that for her, my whole life I’d spend in Hell?

Does she care?


Does she know that for her I suffer?

Does it matter that I’m alive?

That I’d gladly embrace Death were it not for my love,

were it not for the thought of seeing her just one more day?

Does she care?


Does she know that in my world all hope has been lost?

That my only desire is to see another smile on her beautiful lips?

Does it matter that I’m sorry, that I drown in guilt

every single time that I meet her heart-wrenching gaze?

Does she care?


Does she know that for her I’d sell the world,

that for one day of her happiness I’d trade my very soul?

Does it matter that I wallow in daily misery,

knowing that not a thing I do will help?

Does she care?


Does she know that I will never in an infinity of lifetimes forgive myself

for the harm and corruption I’ve bestowed upon her?

Does she care?

Does it matter that I’d live out the span of my existence

in utter and complete misery, in pain of the most unimaginable sort,

if only I was certain that her life would be lived

absolutely free of sorrow and woe?


No, it does not matter, for it may never be.

A heart is a delicate thing, the most fragile and valuable of all things.

I have broken hers, and slowly she is destroying mine.

I place no blame on her

if she truly does not care,

for I love her,

and I do care.


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