You asked me

what I thought about love.

I told you

I was a hopeless romantic 

who didn't believe in love.

When you asked why,

I thought of all the times

I had given 

someone a piece of heart,

begging for the love that

I had to offer,

and of all the times

I was handed back 

this shattered mess that

they called my 

heart.

I felt the panic attacks

as guys threatened to

put their life in my

hands for a piece of me.

I saw the eyes of

every guy, who claimed to be

good, 

pierce me for not

dating them.

I shuttered at the

phantom hands that

wandered my body

without permission. 

You asked me

why I was a hopeless romantic

who didn't believe in love. 

I guess I am because 

I have only seen love

through them.