On the 'Words' page,
here on this site,
'love' is the first word,
sitting lovely, without blight.
Peculiar, though,
it seems to be
That love is the thing
killing both you and me.

Why is it we dream of what we fear most?
For thrill, for passion? Maybe it is, who knows.
Many, many poems, and pieces of art
include the broken word sent from the heart;
l
   o
      v
          e.

if you were to wait for perfection to start flowing through your brain,
through your veins, through your hand, through the pen, and finally to the paper,
the world would lack a masterpiece
that is your
writing

flatten your tongue
slip it between your teeth

n.

your little lips
forming an elipsis

o.

put them together
and may you declare
a word you’d so carefully deny—
no.

you spell it out
on table tops
shout it
from the rooftops

and when cursed hands
seek to defile your shrine
may you exclaim
"i am mine"