Flawed, Love
by E.J. Crowe

I get chills trying to love—
cold sweats, goosebumps,
when **** starts to weave right for once.
I self-destruct.
Blow up.
Turn toxic in the worst way.
Push the webs of depth and truth
to the darkest corners.

I yell.
I swear.
I break ****.

Why?
When love = pure.
But for me, pure =
hidden agendas,
secrets and ***** whispers.

My life only feels normal
when surrounded by chaos and pain—
that’s how my parents and foster homes molded me.
My love ballets are spiteful, *****.
“You stupid *****, you dumb *****,”
as I choke her and feel her wetness.
That’s passion.
That’s love.

Bedroom erotica.
Most women love that.
Especially my wife.
She was there—
when I was homeless, addicted.

Yet still,
tick tick tick,
I try and self-destruct.
The quiet explosion.
Tension.
Fake arguments.
Secret love.

Can I be honest?
Can I deliver my flawed, honorable love?
Or is it just lust that makes me crazy?

Her curves—
a canvas to explore
with calloused hands.
Roaming.
A hitch in her breath.
A gasp—
as she wraps her legs around me
and pulls me deep.

Can I be normal?
Is this normal?

Long nights,
shallow thoughts,
while she sleeps in a lustful glazed haze.
She loves our intimate time—
when I degrade and choke.
Once it's over,
it’s like an elongated dream.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”

Back to innocence.
Hand-holding.
Kissing.
And in that moment of calm,
I finally feel something close to peace.

She kissed my scars like they were scripture,
and I bled peace for the first time.