Racing hearts and sweaty palms,
shaking hands and long talks.
Day by day I fell deeper in,
held hostage to a game no one wins.
When you fall in love, when you get that close,
a seed sprouts in your stomach and a flower grows.
Intertwining two stems, their soul and yours.
Love is a disease and its own cure.
And if that person were to ever leave,
their flower stem replaced with weeds,
you'll find the sun no longer shines,
and the flowers hidden behind your ribs shrivel up and die.
You'll hate yourself for needing someone that much,
allowed yourself to taste the most addictive of all drugs.
They call it love, and I hate it so.
How can someone's arms feel so much like home?