Love.

She was in love.

A bloom of warmth

As her eyes meet his.

A spark.

A chance.

A smile.

She chokes out butterflies,

Whispers sweet perfume.

His smile is sunlight to her soul...

He turns, his sunlight not for her.

His butterflies for someone else,

His heart blooming for another.

She crumples, the thorns of her love piercing,

Painful.

The bloom inside her stealing her breath,

Her blood, her soul.

Vines coil around her heavy heart

Cutting into her heaving lungs,

Suffocating her.

Her love is painful,

Her adoration a disease.

The roses and thorns intoxicate,

leaving maddening emotion and

Bleeding cuts.

She despises her bloom.

She despises every bloom there ever was.

Every bloom that ever caused a person the pain

She feels.

She gags on her blossoms,

A sign of love, now a show of heartache.

She falls to her knees,

The scent of her blooms potent,

Urging her on.

The thorns slice her flesh,

Sharper than a cruel tongue.

Blood like a dark lipstick.

Tears spring from her heavy eyes,

Hypoxia muddling her mind.

Her love is monstrous, destructive,

Reckless.

She struggles to breathe,

The saccharine scent filling her lungs.

She collapses under the weight of the stares around her,

The guilt and disgust.

She wasn't a victim.

She was a fool.

In agony, her blooms invade her heart,

Her throat.

Her brain.

Blood spills to the ground,

The thorns and roses emerge,

And in the agony of love,

She wilts.

Do you want to know a secret?

There’s a sick twist in the pit

of my stomach when I think someone else

is thinking of you the way I do

and

it is a thieved coil I stole

from your

girlfriend.

Possessed by possessiveness,

I am eclipsed by the persuasion of your lips.

There’s a bastardized light in my eyes

when I mistake your presence for present-ness.

Who doesn’t know you like I do? But somehow

I think

I’m

different.

No one is different except who you say

and for years, you’ve said her.

I would love to know

why?

What is the word for when someone didn’t know

they had the power to break or make you

into who you always wanted to be by having

what you’d always wanted? It’s not heart

break the noble wreckage recognized by the broken

hearted. It’s something quieter

heartshake

when I look at you

burn for you a

quiet fire and

you can’t feel my heat.

And it’s insane that you will never know

the illness killing inside my icky sticky innards.

I love you.

Do you want.

to know.

a secret.

I haven't yet.

But I have always thought that I will meet him in a library. I'll be browsing through the racks, looking for my next 3 hours of fantasy, and I'll look up and he'll be looking at me. Then he will come say hi, because I am shy and would never do that, and we will bond over Brandon Sanderson and rice crispies.

But who knows? Maybe I'll meet him in a restaurant, or on campus, or in a grocery store.

You never know...

quoting shakespeare makes me feel smart. i do it because my soul likes to hear him in my own voice. when i first met you, all i heard were his love sonnets. i got why Romeo would kill himself because of grief. if you were Juliet, never could i survive in a world without you. if you were Macbeth, then i would be your dutiful wife cleaning blood on my hands and knees. when i got to know you, other poetry came to me. shall i compare thee to a summers day? yes, i shall. you burned me just like a July afternoon, pink and in pain. have you ever regretted getting a sunburn? i find i'm fine with it when i turn tan in a week or so. that's how you were. you fried my skin and made me die then you told me i was beautiful and tanned my skin to perfection. but then you changed. or maybe i did. either way, i felt like a vengeful character. i felt like the warring households. and still, so many months after i swore not to talk to you, i have one thing left to say. it sums up how i feel, after the double suicide and the stained hands. i have one more piece of poetry for you. I would eat his heart in the marketplace.