A poet for a poem

If only he would write me poetry, if only he would share. That I am who he wants me to be, to show me his care. If only he would write about the insecurities that haunt. That I hate the way I pout, and hate the way I flaunt. That I hate all parts of my body, but that he loves them most. That I cry and cry and weep, but that he's the one engrossed. I'd hate it if he wrote me poetry, because I know he'd forget the part where I'm not who he wants me to be, not deep down, in my heart. Because a poet often wishes that they were, instead, the poem. But the fact, in this case is, Is that a poet is often alone.