I could sit here,
Picking petals off of flowers
Debating your love for me-
Until my hands go numb.
But it will always end in
"he loves me not."
I pick up the pieces and
Restart with the next-
I am met by the same fate,
The ending never changes,
But I do.
Like a chameleon,
My colors shift.
The glue between pieces becomes
Stronger.
A fresh coat of ebony mascara is
Painted on.
New crimson bricks are added
To the walls.
Recently polished armor
Covers the scars of
The past.
A new image of me is born.
A contemporary exterior is created,
With a familiar interior,
Lingering within the shadows.
Sometimes I dream of the past,
Of a previous me.
I try to remember who she was,
What did she love?
It's hard,
She feels distant and
Ghost-like.
I wonder when the day will come along
Where I will love me?
When I will look at my changes
As growth,
Instead of hiding.
The day when someone comes along,
With claims that they love me,
Will they love me or the most recent changes,
I've made to myself?
