Don’t tell me that I deserve better if you won’t be the better that I am getting.
I think that you have deserved better as well.
I can’t hold out for hope, unless I can hope for you; hope to have you, hope to possess you in my heart, for I am greedy, and I am thirsty, and I am poor in love right now, and any love given I want only for myself.
My desire for you is frantic, confused, and angry, and white hot, so you know that I could cauterize any wounds you carry, making them painfully clean.
Neither of us knows how to love without suffering for that love, and we both know that that is the wrong way to love, but when sadness and anger are your constant companions, it is difficult to learn to live without them.
It is difficult to pull the thistle, and ragweed, and briars from around your heart, when the invasive weeds of suffering, and sadness are the only garden you’ve learned to tend.
Let us tether our hearts, and make a garden of lovely flowers for every season.
Let us put the night to rest, and let the sun rise, and glow on our lives.
Come to me, and let me love you, for yours is the love that I need, that I want, that I hunger for, and like me, I know that you must be starving.
Come then, and let us devour that which is never finite.
Let me be your better.