I get that you are in love.

I see it in how your mouth drags through the air
tongue softened to mulch
spitting devotion like poison
naming her like it matters
as if love could ever be just light.

I hate it. I hate it. I—
the way it clouds the corneas with film
projecting shadows of devotion
onto every surface
turning light to a lens
that magnifies only insanity.
and once embedded, the film hardens
a second eyelid that blinks only inward
sealing you in perpetual darkness.

I gnash at shadows, rip at ribs
hunt unclaimed inches
but its throne squats in lungs, in blood,
in bone.
I wore its sweetness once,
let it dress my wounds in lace
until the lace drew blood.
and even now, a whisper tempts
to don the lace again.

I have had enough—every sunk ounce,
claws clutched, wet persistence pressed, relentless, invasive, seething.
I cannot move, cannot breathe,
cannot cease this hissing hate
for what they call love:

usurper,
fever,
hunger.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash