She doesn’t know love.
She sits alone in an empty room.
Shadowed only by a soft light.
She doesn’t see through the eyes of a lover,
But through the eyes of a stranger.
A stranger who torments herself.
She does not care to love.
She mourns to be loved.
Besotted to be longed for.
She is lonely.
A loneliness disguised by a smile.
A smile she has worn too long.
She doesn’t understand love.
An immortal expression she can’t grasp.
She has comprehended hate.
She despises and detests.
But has never loved.
She questions if she ever will.
She has no aspirations.
She desires only to sit alone.
The only company she is affluent with.
She never confronts her failures.
But gives them to people she can’t trust.
And hides herself from those she can.
She doesn’t understand love.
She is lonely.
She is her own stranger.
Hated.
Desired.
But never loved.
