I have seen you die a hundred deaths in the name of love,
each one taking a little more of you,
  tightening the chains woven round your heart.

Your eyes close when your lover wounds you,
wishing for the sweet release,
  as he slips the blade between your ribs.

You never die from these wounds of love,
though you wish it often enough,
  but wishing does not make it so.

Your lover pours honey into this great hole he has made in you,
and you taste this nectar and blood,
  and then you let him take you.

I have seen you sacrifice yourself to the god Janus,
though in your  honest defense,
  you believed him to be Adonis.

Forgive me for hurting you now,
though I swear forever,
  you will never ******* blade.

Your love strikes you down so terribly,
not because it is it's nature,
  but because it is not love.

So many ounces of pain,
and so many ounces of pleasure,
  these form the chains that bind you.

But it is not love.