It’s the maybe that hurt the most

It’s the maybe that hurts the most

When you look at him

And see a ghost

Though you can see his blue veins

And, if you concentrate hard enough,

A subtly beating pulse.

It’s the maybe that hurt the most,

Because you didn’t know,

What he was doing to you,

When he told you your words were lies

Til they scattered, scarring a page

With dismembered letters.

It’s the maybe that hurt the most,

How can I execute a ghost?

I wouldn’t want to kill anyone, anyway,

The thought makes me retch,

But…

But I think he’s killed a part of me.

And, if he’s holding the life I seek,

Then I must pull it from his skin,

With searching fingers, a more pleasurable sin,

It’s the maybe that hurt the most.

Now I see poems on pinterest,

Glorifying toxic love.

I never read to the end,

I remember wondering,

Can love still be love,

If it’s toxic?

Because I wanted some redemption,

For a blue haired, dark haired, glinting gold kinda guy,

Whose love I needed to know wasn’t a lie,

Maybe if he had been someone different,

Maybe if I hadn’t tried to heal an old hurt with someone new,

Maybe if I were stronger, less sensitive, less impulsive, less wild,

Maybe if I were less than me, the love would be real.

Do you see, now?

Do you see, how (?)

It’s the maybe that hurts the most.

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