she doesn't understand why I write

how it helps, what it means

it's all just words to her.

she doesn't understand how I feel,

how much she hurts me,
or how much I like the pain

she's so simple.

she doesn't understand what I see in her

I see everything in her.

she's every positive test result, or every complicated exam

she's every sunrise and every sundown,
every constellation,
and even the moon

she's everything

but she doesn't see it.

she doesn't know that I write poems about her,

or that when I'm not looking at her I hope she's looking at me.

she's over me.
I never thought she was into me.
she was never into me.

they never are.

she doesn't understand that I can't just 'move on'.

oh, how I wish it was that easy.

I was raised being told that words hurt,
and I always believed it.
I know what it feels like to be called slurs, to be used as someone's mental punching bag,

and it does hurt.

but I was never taught that words help.
I was never taught that I could write, and feel, and pour everything out with syllables and rhymes,
I was never taught that I could be myself behind computer screens and nonsense,
I guess that's something I've had to teach myself.

words help,

and it is known that things can make you just as happy as they can sad.

if only she knew how popular my poems about her are

if only she knew that she's all I think about

if only she knew that every word is written while I'm thinking about her

if only she knew that I think I'm in love with her