I am not used to being loved.
I do my own stuff—not because I always like to, but because I have to
.
In a crowded world, I stand alone, not because I'm an introvert, but because people scare me.
I cook for myself, not because I always enjoy it, but because it's necessary.
I can spend all day alone, not because I'm lonely, but to avoid unnecessary drama.
I have a tiny circle, not because I can't connect with people, but because I value quality over quantity.
I love the idea of love. I like watching love movies and others' love stories.
But when it comes to me, I run away—not because I hate love, but because the idea of being loved is unfamiliar.
Maybe I feel good knowing I could be loved, but I fear how deeply it could hurt if it breaks.
Because I am not used to being loved.....
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Llion the Brave Version 2
Her screams diminished as Llion was dragged away from the cell. The stench in the corridor was less but there was still damp, decay, defecation, death. His feet dragged, like a raggedy puppet, the guard either side of him holding him fast. He could feel their individual fingers digging into his scant flesh, leaving their impression on his bones.
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Wow you really describe yourself well. You make people understand you! Great poem. Very well put.
I understand this feeling. Good poem.
Thank you for the interesting and delicious content. Follow my story now.