I am a hopeless romantic.

I can approach with wide, child-like eyes;

Curious—playful—affection—like a kitten.

I can let myself bask in the sweet bliss of

limerence without the naïveté of a first-time

lover.

 

And once that sweetness turns sour,

I can look with quiet wisdom in my eyes and rue

in my smile—

another one has come and gone

and the lover’s high, stronger than any other

drug, fades.

 

The pain comes,

first in staccato’d stings,

then moderate aches,

then deep, hollow emptiness

leaving me itching for physical pain instead.

 

How many will come and go—

and leave me itching for a car accident to relieve me of

this emotional pain?

 

I always believe the high will be worth it,

but when faced with the emotional repercussions later,

I question my choices.

Why did I let another get so close to my weak, scarred

heart?

 

Was smiling—giggling ‘til my face hurt—

‘til my head felt like it was ‘bout to burst—

worth it?

 

Again, again; you fell for it again.

You let this one get too close.

You should have known.

 

Oh, but I did.

The consequences seemed so far away at the time

and maybe, just maybe, no—not a maybe—

a small part of me hoped he would be the one to prove

himself different than the other suitors.

 

I can grit my teeth again and chastise myself all I want.

I fall prey to this cycle every time.

I trick myself into thinking someone will stay and love what I

have to offer.