I Wrote Myself in Love with You

I didn't know that I loved to write until I wrote myself in love with you.

It's not that I hadn't been able to write before, but that I had nothing of

real importance to say.

When I met you, that changed.

As words spilled out of my pen, I felt as though my swollen heart was

finally getting relief.

If I kept all of these words in my heart, I was afraid it may burst.

Page after page I filled with the way my eyes searched for you in every crowd,

wishing desperately for us to be alone.

How it felt when you rested you rested your hand on my knee, a gentle gesture

that made my heart soar. 

The flutter of butterflies in my stomach when you tenderly kissed me up against 

the wall, making me feel so light I believed that I could fly too.

But I can not write anymore.

I am terrified that if my pen touches the paper, the words will spill out as they

did before.

I need to keep these words in my heart.

Safe, so no one will know the way I have come to embrace crowds, the hoards

of people with watching eyes that allow me to feel safe for a moment.

How you squeeze my knee so hard that it bruises, an ugly purple warning of 

what is to come.

The way the butterflies all died in my stomach the night you slammed me into 

a wall, sinking down into my gut, leaving a heavy reminder of what you've 

become. 

I would burn all the pages and throw out all the pens, but I don't need to.

I can't write when you clench my hand so tightly. 

I wrote myself in love with you, but I can not write myself out.