In which everything I write

In which everything I wrote became about you,
And everytime your name pops up, it becomes about love,
And everytime I shove the word 'love' out of my throat, it becomes about heartbreak,
And everytime I talk about a heartbreak, it all comes back to you.
In which every prose and every poem Instilled in my notebook,
And every heartbeat loud and clear,
Clear enough to convey it doesn't beat for love,
Loud enough to shout it won't stop over a heartbreak,
In which everything I write becomes about you.
It's not me, it really isn't.
My hands are a little selfish, you see?
And so is my mind sometimes.
So what is it even worth, if it is hope that is indeed lost,
Because when I talk about hope, it becomes about faith,
And when I talk about faith it's mostly about trust,
And when I talk about trust, it's about relationships,
And what good are relationships if not in love,
So when I talk about love, you shove out heartbreaks from your mouth,
And everytime I write about heartbreak, it all comes back to you.
But it isn't me, it really isn't.
My needs are selfish, you know?
I need my coffee hot and my my room cold,
And I need a pen to write and believe it's not about you.
But everytime I hold a pen, it's despair I jot,
And Despair is never about me but always about you,
Because where will I find despair if not in love,
And love can never be about loving myself now,  can it be?
So it isn't me, it really isn't.
My body is selfish, you know,
It wants water- boiling hot, to burn my sins off my skin,
And it wants the skin to be smooth,
Even if it means to rip off my soul along to make it worth the woo,
Because this body wants to feel beautiful,
But beautiful is painful,
And painful is love.
In which everytime it comes to love, it soon comes to heartbreak,
And when it comes to heartbreak, it comes to you.
But what good is beauty, if it is hope that is lost,
And what good is hope if it is love that is indeed lost,
And what good is love if it is defined by you and not me.