Something for Love

"I still love you."

How is that working out for you?  You gave me a dress.  I loved it and then stained it.  Black.  Red.  White.  Blue.  Tell me again.  Because I've forgotten, the lovely color it used to be.  You run around numbers; I roll over paints.  Tell me.  How are we meant to be?

"You're beautiful, and I hereby present this poem for you."

I'm moved.  No.  Not really.  I'm not what you expect to be.  I'm a writer.  A painter.  A mess.  An artist.  An erratic.  I'll just hurt you.  Break you.  Fix you.  Love you.  Hurt you again.  Over and over again.  You've tried to fix me.  Fix us.  Yet I'm violently breaking what you've beautifully created.  You will never find love in a heart of a damsel who doesn't want to be loved.

You told me I'm not the problem.  Have I ever told you that you are the sweetest liar I've ever met?  Your words are like honey, pouring out of the volcano on top of my head, sticking to my hair, engulfing my head, sprawling like an hare, drowning my body, seeping through the blood inside of me.  I wish I could melt away; then, perhaps, you could be the great man you're supposed to be.