Thinking on love in my twenties; knowing none deserved me.
You’re not worth the works I’ve beaten down on pages to see.
You’re not up to snuff when it comes to handling a heart.
Certainly you are subpar-nowhere near the bullseye dart.
You never could cut the mustard when faced with tenderness.
Nor with holding space or listening; with any expertness.
How many times did I show up to sword-fights with flowers.
Head hung, slunk away wishing for love potions & powders.
Now, I look back & plainly see your interest uncouth.
You’ve not earned a thing from me; but you did deserve the truth.
L.B.Stowe 