will she

She wonders if she’s even
capable of being loved,
having
thought she loved, but not been
loved in return, which she thought was
part of the deal,
along with being loved the
way she wants to be
loved, which is exactly what everyone wants, of course –
to be loved the way you want to
be loved, with that one crystal addendum:
by
the
one
you want loving you.
So, she cries, sometimes, more, other times,
because
they don’t ever seem to and she
wonders if it’s her, though she knows,
really, that it isn’t, that she just
hasn’t
found
him who will make her
feel
the
way
she wants to feel, and she thinks this,
when it’s quiet and dark and the wind
rustles the leaves on the elm outside her window on
brittle, autumn nights:
will
she
ever?
the little voice inside her says,
yes,
but she doesn’t
believe
it.
always, as well she
shouldn't.