The truth is, my darling, that no, I don’t love you. And no, I don’t really hate you either. You were simply the missing piece. The missing piece amongst a junkyard so wide I confused for holy ground. The lost piece that fit so nicely to finish my five-thousand-piece puzzle. The truthful piece that gifted me the concept of honest knowledge. The heartfelt piece that made me understand how I could love so deeply without being loved in return. You were, simply, the missing piece. The last piece. The honest piece. My peace.

And no, I don’t love you, but that has very little to do with this poem. Loving you is irrelevant, because it does not take into consideration my passion for you, my investment in you, my pain for you, my relationship towards you. Loving you doesn’t take into consideration the truth about you, about me, about us.

The truth about me is that I am lost, no, was lost. I found myself between miles and miles of dead sea without any sense of direction or purpose or honesty. Drowning, slowly, steadily, in a glass of water filled with lies, and self-hatred, self-detriment, self-harm, self-hurt. The truth about me is that I loved a girl, and she was beautiful, and she was not me. The truth about me involves hours staring at a blank paper- wait no- that’s my skin, written in red ink that drips and drops in a pattern that dazes me until I am no longer with you. The truth about me is that there are 36 hours of my life I don’t remember, and I am told that the things that came out of my mouth were foul and black. The truth about me is that I was chained to a bed against my will and told it was for my own well being. The truth about me, The truth about me, is that my life was complete except for that one missing piece.

The truth about you is that you were walking down a not-so-worn path, with a vague idea of a destination without really being headed anywhere. Convinced that turning around would lead to the palace of a goal you decided to set. The truth about you is that you’d been hurt, and blinded, and in pain. The truth about you is that the turquoise and silver that surrounds your heart doesn’t do justice to soul that lives and loves inside. The truth about you is that your pain made you cry, and your hatred made you soar. The truth about you, the truth about you, is that you believed your ability to love would destroy you, and I was convinced it would empower you.

The truth about us, oh, well.

That’s certainly a story to tell.

The truth about us is that we love eachother more than we’d ever care to admit. The truth about us is that we knew it would never happen. The truth about us is that we never hated eachother, we hated what we were not. The truth about us… is… that we were eachother’s missing piece. And we weren’t meant to stay together.

So, no, My Love. I don’t love you. And You don’t love me.

My truest heart, you were my truest love.

And no, I hope you don’t have we had with anyone else.

I wouldn’t wish that upon anybody.