Counting Months.

From a great hero to another,
we march on.
Not for ourselves,
but for everyone around us.

That's what love is.
-
I hate what you made me; I hate that you changed me.
I hate that I spent what was suppose to be the better part of my youth worrying,
contemplating,
constantly on the edge for guilt I shouldn't have felt.

You said I needed somebody who was going to stick around,
somebody who genuinely cared. You say you're the only one who ever cared about me and what I wanted.
But here's where you're wrong.

I've never needed anyone.
Maybe I didn't know that, since all my poetry is lovesick letters to people who never read them, when under the surface it's just advice for myself, that I never took until it was (two late).
Well I wasted two years of my life forcing the thought of someone else out of my head, blinding the thought of what if's from existence.
Now my entire world is a giant what if.
And you have the nerve to say it's my fault you've cut a whole into your heart.

Two broken hearts have never equaled a whole,
and I have never been yours,
and never will.
-
I sacrificed myself that day in May.
Forgot I left my heart in November.