I'm in love.
I have to write.

This ink
Is the blood of my very being,
Poisoned by love for an illusion,
Yet strengthened by the poison.
It's on my breath,
On my words in the air,
And on this page.

The pain I wish to stay.
I implore it to call my veins its torturous, beautiful prison.
I wish it with
Every
Last
Fiber
Of my trembling being-
This being that threatens to shatter
At the slightest breeze...

Yet from my broken pieces,
I know
That a stronger,
More susceptible,
And touched
Being will emerge.

Love conquers violently,
And this violence,
This passion,
This lust-
This, my friend,
My dear, sweet, beloved rose,
Is perfection.

It is poisonous perfection.
And, like the flower that cannot stay,
It will vanish in the night.