The Task
Given to me this task that is too much to bare.
The task of not acknowledging my sad,sad heart.
I begin to think of days when you were near.
Days that I strive to convince myself you never really existed,
Only in the deep corners of my mind were you real.
If you are a phantom, and love wasn't actually,
Then my heart has no reason to feel pain.
There is no point to remember what did not occur.
Steeped in the desolation that I, myself, created within,
Using you as the not so useful tool,
I suffer remorse for making the choice to love.
You are, to me, a rose, a thing of incredible beauty.
But as I take you in my hand I feel the pain of my decision
Piercing through my flesh.
Crimson streams begin to flow, but I dare not let go
until the agony of feeling who you are is complete.
How is it beautiful thing, that you can be so delicate
but wound me so deeply?
Can you feel the exact emotion of regret as I?
Or are you so unaware of your power that you truly are
innocent of my bloodshed?
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