Love is violence,
blood shed for the people
we hope to be in love with.
Love is thrown around like
leaves on a stormy autumn day.
We bleed on our love for each other,
hoping that something will be born
from the elixir of a human being.
Why are we so concerned for this
nonexistent newborn?

Why am I so concerned for him,
and why is he attacking my heart?
I guess he doesn't know does he?
He doesn't know that every day
I can feel my lungs collapsing
from the lack of his breath,
and I can feel my eyes losing sight
from the lack of his guidance.
I feel heavy.
I feel my bones being filled with lead,
and the culprit is him,
filling me with the love I’ll never have.
Who is he to make me feel like this?  

Why does each individual letter
of this forsake word
cut so deeply into my arms?
I want him to stop leaving
bullet holes in my stomach.
Once I am bled out,
he will bury me deep
within the ground,
and I will call the dirt
my home and the creatures
my friends.

My hands are old,
and they long for your touch.
I just want to hear your
voice, full of honey,
call my name.
I can’t stop thinking
about the way your
heavenly eyes bore
into my soul.

Love is obsessing over
his eyes and the darkness
that it holds.

Love is not real,
and neither are you.