A/N: Dedicated to all you writers out there who simply lose the words you normally order with such ease when the subject is the person you happen to love more than all the comfort-chocolate in the world.

When I finally accepted I didn’t loathe you as much as I told you I did,
I wrote you a love poem to try telling you how I felt
And it sucked

It totally sucked

I tried writing you several more later
in a fit of restless exasperation
And they sucked

They totally sucked

I can’t say what I want when you’re
the subject, you see
I avoid writing this stuff
so exclusively for me

I’ll use the essence of me in other works,
but I don’t really have a
voice yet in autobiographies

I’m still only an essence
A phantom, a lingering spirit
A puff of pale smoke that flees
upon the delicate touch of oxygen

So I wrote you another love poem
And it sucked more than the rest of them

I chewed on my pen and mentally
set fire to all I’d written

I thought about you while I did it
I saw your face
in my imaginary embers, laughing
at my clumsy efforts at expressing pent-up love

I wrote you a rant then
I told you I hated everything about you
From your hair to your clothes, to your feet
I hated it all

And then in a post script,
I said that I loved you

I named it “Love Poem”
Then I read it again

This one didn’t suck
This wasn’t bad
Not bad at all.