Affection

Perhaps I am addicted to the idea of finding love

I fall much too easily

Tripping on kind words

Stumbling when treated like a human being

My feet tangled in the web of my unruly past

Clinging to a glimmer of any small sign like

Freshly picked fruit

As though holding it tight in my hands will stop it from turning to rot

I have watched so much of my affection mould and wither, and every time wondered

"Why me?"

But it is that I am addicted to rotten fruit

In the hope that my affection can make it sweet