Poetry: Better Love

I don’t know much

about love.

I know

I once promised a boy

on the school swingset,

pinkies intertwined,

small feet grazing the ground,

I would marry him.

I know

love is not simple

anymore.

It’s hookups

and booze

and wandering hands

in dark corners.

I know

it’s ripping yourself in half

and hoping the other person

has the decency

not to tear everything out.

I know

I want a better love

than sloppy nights

and forgotten days

and picture-perfect pairs.

I also know

I am terribly afraid

of being alone.

I fear that better love

is nonexistent.

Or at least

it will be

for me,

though I know

I deserve

more.

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