All of my loves were innocent
At least, that's what I used to think.
Now I know.
No love can be truly innocent.
What is love, but something
born from selfishness
The desire to make someone see
What you see in yourself.
The desire to possess what eludes countless other broken hearts
Not for another
But for what they had to offer
Not for the way they spoke so softly
Or how their soft lips brushed yours
Or their gentleness
Or even their goodness
But for the way they made you feel.
The way they made you stronger
A better person
It wasn't about them, it's about you.
It always has been.
These are the thoughts that blacken my mind
Making quite certain that no love of mine
Will ever be innocent