My love is unconventional,
I cannot love thee to the depth, breadth and height;
I would complain about trivial things such as patterns of socks
Or the moral conventions of Czechoslovakia;

As If I'd love thee
Whereas my mind travels to certain clouds of pink

In imagination, I lose myself,
I'd not compare thee to a rose, or Victorian strategies of pleasing
the opposite ***;

I'd hurt you,
I'd make you a slave of my pain and pride

For it is how,
I love thyself.