Pretty in pink, I'd like to think I can write
you a ballad but all that comes is a pallid
canvas of colourless words.
I fail to bring the vibrancy in my heart
to life, descriptions of you, of your love.
Damaged, though I am, I know that you
and you alone love me.
In a way that no sibling, parent or other knows.
Yet,
acid drips from my lips aimed like an arrow
to your heart.
Fastened together by something more than
Love, why do we fight with such spite?
What sorcery binds us?
I love you, but that makes you mine
to ****.
Men may **** the things they do not love
but we women **** what we love the most.