I think it’s tragic,
When people let words chew them from within
Binding them feverishly
With steadfast hands
The ‘What If’ snarling at the back of their heads.
What If your love doesn’t receive reciprocation,
Would you be stoic enough to love the way
writers think people love?
What if that biting pain in your spine refuses to go,
Would you be resolute enough to carry on?
Loving is a deliberate act of masochism
There will always be the possibility
Of breaking the way writers think people break;
Stale gas pump coffee and lying motionless on the bathroom floor
Sonorous crying fits and smudged mascara
(and the related histrionics)
Nights spent reminding yourself to sleep/breathe/exist, and then cringing at the futility of the endeavour
Floors strewn with plummeted dreams and dust
Only the dust is scrubbed off on most days.
Love is a conscious choice of self-annihilation
There will always be a moment when it won’t seem worth anything
Maybe that’s why people let it slash them indiscriminately
Love lets them don the garb of martyrdom.
I believe it’s cowardice to give up
A chance at happiness to maintain
A flat lined status quo,
A state of ostensible painlessness.