What is love?
A mere conception; a psychological distortion to mental stability.
This venomous snake we call love tightens its slithering body around
my ability to be mentally acute.
I am dead.
Unrequited love murdered me until I was nothing but an iota of black
nothingness- and I allowed it. I wish to be hollow and apathetic.
Feeling is destructive; Feeling consumes me under immobile stillness-
a stillness morbidly magnetic, for it attracts weak souls as my own and
I am no longer who I desire to be. I am a dark figure sliding by one’s
peripherals- that is me and all I am capable of becoming. Perhaps if
love favored my poor delicate soul, I would be alive and well. Perhaps
if love favored my foolish heart, I would be lying next to my beloved in a
bed of granted dandelion wishes.