“the few of you”

at a loss for words
at how the few of you have changed me –
yet here i am still writing.

i’ve deliberated for a long time,
whether love is given
or self-inflicted
before i realised it doesnt matter
how it was created;
only know it exists –
and that it hurts like hell.

is it supposed to sting like this,
like a bee without its death
again and again
like actors on a stage
on a permanent encore.

love sucks
more out of you than you know.

then again, what do i know about love?

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