repetitive masochism

I am not the one, I am not even an option.
I am the clouds on a sunny day, welcomed but not treasured.
I stick around for a boy who won't let himself want me.
I stick around for a boy who's heart breaks for another, but doesn't spare a beat for mine.
I stick around for a love unrequited.
I delude myself into wishful thinking, knowing damn well deep inside these wishes are empty.
I keep a small hope alive for a match that won't light, a record that won't turn, a sentence that won't en-

Maybe I am not meant for another, maybe my soul has no equal.
The repetitiveness of this situation makes it seem as though time travel is possible, given how many times I've been in it.
How can I think it's not me when I am the only common denominator in these situations?
But no matter how many times I've been subjected to this heartbreak, I won't harden. I won't callous.
I am constantly searching for the silver lining, dragging my heart on a string through a thunderstorm.

 My heart is a masochist.