A Little Bit

What am I even supposed to write?
I sit here staring and don't even type.
My mind is blank and my heart is numb.
Sadness is where my best poetry comes from.

If I could only feel something.
Even if it's fucking depressing.
My best writing happens when I'm upset or in a rage.
It awakens the words in my soul that I pour on the page.

I've avoided writing because I don't want to write about him.
I failed just by writing that line, I don't know how long it's been.
I pushed and he listened.
I left and now it's finished.

I avoid the page because I know what's going to come out.
It's been so long, but yours is still the only name on my mouth.
And everyone elses too, shoving it all in my face.
Telling me how stupid I am, what a damn disgrace.

Fucking something up all because of my own insecurities.
I couldn't believe you because it all sounded like stories.
How can someone mean that much to someone?
It sounded too good to be true, now it's gone.

Does that mean that I was right?
Or maybe I wasn't worth the fight.
I wasn't worth the time it would take to convince.
I thought I was being smart, using common sense.

How am I not over this yet?
I was the one who left the bed.
I walked out and cut off communication.
But for some reason I still feel dedication.

There are so many "what ifs" in my mind.
I wonder why I couldn't have just tried.
I still feel like he's never not been over it.
It's okay, at least I had you for a little bit.