Staring at this screen,

Cracked. Broken. Barely working.

This is love.

This feeling of emptiness,

my finger, a heavy brick on one word: send,

this is love.

This vacant lot of self-respect,

the curtains are drawn,

the doors are locked,

and yet this guilt still follows me,

it is sent, it is opened, it is replied,

this is love.

This guilt,

this torment,

this heartache,

has he saved it? deleted it? forwarded it?

This is love.

Me in this mirror,

naked and afraid,

like a puppet,

with his hands pulling at the strings,

this is love.

This prison of guilt and pain,

this fear of discovery,

this bus ticket,

this need for escape,

this is love.

This shame, this embarrassment,

these tears, the emptiness I feel,

Is this really love?