I envy love at its finest. Any proof or it makes me crumble. Not of hatred. But of vile, horrible Envy and jealousy. I sit here. Only family love me. The rest are friends. And sometimes I doubt I can or do trust them. Reading my own emotions Is like reading a book with nothing in it. Impossible for myself. Do I know the difference? Between love and friendship? Though no comrades have loved me. I still look at love. With envy. I desire love. I want someone to think about. At night and at morning. So I can feel the rush Of saying I love you. To someone who I Truly know I do.
It don’t rhyme, I know. And Tis cringe but still. I’m a desperate little b-
