It's funny,
this thing called love.

Yet,
it rarely makes
anyone laugh.

I was made
to serve, quiet and silent,
a living body ripped
of its tongue

where certain hellhounds
breathe down the necks
of suppressed females,
petrified, but still

unwillingly willing to please
the so-called men-gods.

I was born
in a world where opinions
and thoughts are stacked
pile upon pile, and while

my inner voices tries to
stretch itself awake sometimes,
only to be dragged back
into a drunken stupor,

but not before I see
salivating mouths, leering
...closing in upon me...

I was made human,
perhaps...

You are
the silent prayer
my subconscious heart
whispers ...in twilit hours.

I slept
listening to the sound
of your rhythmic breaths,

and your snores,
my customized lullaby.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I pondered over your words,
silently memorizing your face,
my mind buzzed, as every possible
reason skipped around to present
a bouquet of thoughts.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I sat down to write memoirs
but no words came,
and my pen stopped mid-air,
while letters danced...

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I wished, secretly, that
you'd asked how much I love you,
for I would have answered:
"You are my first waking thought...
that's how much I love you."

'Cause for reasons on why do I love you,
my pen seems pathetically dry. ..