Just a Writer

Sometimes I love you

and sometimes I despise you, but

I question my affection because

it often stems from emptiness 

though I say the sweetest 

things, retreating into the world 

we made for ourselves with its

characters, inside jokes, and 

anthropomorphic bears, 

the little space where we can 

be ourselves despite the shit

we’ve seen. Is it true love?

I ask myself. Isn’t there more to 

love? More substance? More 

depth? Isn’t it more than things 

said or even felt? Doesn’t it reflect 

in the way we treat each other 

and the sacrifices we make?

So I doubt everything, 

and wonder whether I’m capable 

of love at all or if all I do is 

joke and tease. Even when 

my actions align with what love is —

putting you in front of me, 

making those much needed changes —

I wonder if what I’m doing is simply 

duty, a following of a routine 

that masquerades as the 

real thing.