Go

Go. Just go. 

I don't want you to, but you will eventually. 

I won't tell you that I can't stand the fact that you talk to all these girls you don't know. 

I won't tell you that I should know better than to trust you. 

I won't tell you that when I told you of the scars that constantly change on my legs, that I thought for sure that was goodbye. 

I won't tell you that I know that you will leave. 

I won't tell you goodbye when the monster comes to take me away. 

I won't tell you that I cry now, as you aren't talking to me. 

I won't tell you that I don't know how to stop. 

I won't tell you that I'll be okay. 

Because I'm not okay. Because in time, you too, will know of these things. 

Because I am not strong enough to fight. Because I can't solve everything. 

Because you may leave all the sooner. 

It doesn't matter how much you love me now. It will die out. It always does. For no one knows how to love the monster too. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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