Ghosts

I was fourteen.
I wanted what I could not have,
From whom I could not have it.
Never again did I want that badly.

It made me say terrible things.
I'm sick just thinking of it,

But I did not stop wanting.
I'd hardly started.
So many times saying three little words
To get what I wanted.

Those lousy lies to lovely people.
I'm sick just thinking of it.

My wants take the form of serving a self
Who then can't be devoted to somebody else.
I'm just showing off when I offer my coat.
Chivalry's dead, and I don't believe in ghosts.

And it only took me five years to see:
If I can't be devoted, then why should she?
I'll be through thinking of it once I know:

Am I forgetting or never learning?
Is my heart broken, or missing?