She was a written love letter
              in a text message world.

I flail around,
Not backing down.
In and out,
I scream and shout.
Self-aimed, the blow:
Plunge down below.
My line is cut.
The book slams shut.

“Falling in love” is a contradiction in itself, because in love there is only the rising, the ascending, not the falling.
You can not fall in love, but rather, rise.

It's temporary, yet we seek it.
It's forbidden, yet we lust it.
It's deadly, yet we crave it.
It's addictive, yet we "experiment".
It's disappointing, yet we never learn.
It's surprising, yet we rush it.
It's tasteless, yet it's fills us.
It's dreadful, yet it's unexplainable.
It's spiteful, yet it's addictive

i clung onto a dream
of you loving me
and i held it so tightly
wrapped it up with
a bow in my small arms

and i heaved and heaved
convinced by some string
of unsureness deep inside me
i held the weight as it dragged
my knees to the floor
bowing before you
i made myself tiny