Pain Olympics

Late at night again and I'm alone.
I lie in the dark, swathed in the light from my phone.
My doubts are consuming me, more than they normally do.
The loneliness lacking you brings a whole different flavor.
Why am I drained from every interaction but those I have with you?
I met another girl, thinking it was love but I hate her.
The comfort and security you bring is like no other.
Yet, it shouldn't be this way…
I should have more faith.
In God, in myself, in hope that I'll love another day.
But all my good emotions seem to just run away.
They're fleeting, faster than the most beautiful cherry blossom.
All that's left is blackness in my bosom.
My torch, once shining so bright
It's now flickering, trying to stay alight.
Yet I still write these poems.
Why?
To make someone laugh? To make myself cry?
To have you compliment something about me one more time?
Pathetic. Every word and every line.
From my hatred and lamentations
to my rose tinted stories of how your hand fits perfectly in mine.
Yet it's all futile.
A waste of time.
Every breath and every line.
Every word, every rhyme.
For at the end of the day, you love someone that's not me.
That very thought never ceases to haunt me.
Am I destined to carry this weight for the rest of my life?
To carry it with me until I grow old and bitter and die?
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
I'm the epitome of the word.
I know that even if I had you back, I'd still find a way to decimate us again.
I wish I could be a better man; I wish I could be greater.
I just wish that I wasn't constantly reminded of my biggest failure.
I think I was hurt more than you, even though saying something that will never fix it.
I just need you to be proud of me if I win my silver medal in the pain Olympics.