Tell me it's not true that the way I'm loving you is all I got

Bruises fade like so many memories, and only this vaguely melancholy torpor settles in to claim the vacated space. Again and again, voices in an amplifying chorus tell me that desire is frivolous, effort is useless, and all attempts are doomed to fail. And how can I not be convinced by these sentiments, as each one seems manifested in the fact that it hurts to even write this? Not one muscle does not ache, not one iota of this body or brain feels free of pain, but type I still do, and type I still will. And perhaps more out of spite than strength of willpower or spirit, but yes, I still do have some fight in me yet. So come at me, bro. Come at me with fists and fury, assail me with doubt and discouragement, and by all means do your worst... but, even if it is not good enough, I will keep on giving it my best.