Miserable at Best

I’m scared of an
“I love you” laced with
sincerity.

I’m scared, because I don’t know
what it means.
I’m afraid I’ve never been,
I’m afraid I might have missed
what being in love is.

And sure we kissed.

Sure,
it was never just one,
he always wanted more.
But this was before,
well before I knew who I
would become.

Before I had become undone.

Now, I turn away from
everyone.
Shut out,
shut down everyone.

Don’t let those you care about
get close or you might lose
some
of whatever is left of
yourself.

When I love,
I love hard
and I love whole.
And I let myself
risk my own happiness—

I don’t know what it’s like.
To be happy again.
August 28th was the closest
I got to feeling some type of way,

and even then, I felt guilty for liking him.

Even then,
but at least I had distraction.

Right now,
I am not sure
when I’ll feel
when I’ll
“fall in love” again.

I’m not the same girl I was
last summer.
Can’t revive her, under this front of

I dress a certain way to scare guys away.
I hold myself together when everybody is trying to break skin and
I’m falling apart at the seams
because I can’t retrieve
who I was back when
summer was simple
and I was naive

And “I love you”s were honest
and not smoke screens.

Frankly, the only thing
I’m certain of is
I’m miserable,
at best.

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