Weary of Love

You have taken me prisoner to your wishes,

I no longer want any love from you.

Your love tightens the noose around my freedom and catches itself on my breath.

It muffles my voice and curls my skin into harrowing pits in my stomach

It follows me, like a demon that forces itself into everything that I love, and then ruins it.

It creeps into every crevice of my thought, ruining the good in them, to give way to it’s stubborn, insolent “practicality”.

It wiles it’s words and tears into getting it’s way,

It uses every underhanded trick in the book, to force itself into unwelcome spaces and, declare them conquered.

It withholds, until withered hearts render consent to anything at all, so they can breathe.

(And you wonder still, why I have abandoned all roads leading back to you)

Your love has tainted so much, I no longer feel anything, when love is mentioned.

In fact, love has left me weary

I cannot imagine anymore the beauty of it.

The joy it is supposed to inspire, seems horribly unreal,

The warm fuzzy feelings people fathom, seem utterly unrealistic and overly dramatic.

Why is it that others spout such nonsense, such painful realities, to only inspire unending waves of hope?

Is it any surprise then, that all I want, is to jump ship?

That I want no part of this vision I never bought into?

I want nothing to do with love, as you say it is.

I want freedom, I want joy, I want the desire to lock hands and leave behind crumpled sheets.

I want heartfelt tears and toe curling laughter.

I want genuine desire for the good of the other, without a feigned compromise.

And if that is crazy, then leave me be, to my insanity,

They are much more pleasant than yours.

Please don’t make me choose between my supposed insanity and your practical standards,

I will choose insanity every time.

And I will know the day I will have died, as the day that I buy into your world.

The day that I assume love is inevitable suffering and self-immolation,

That it is the drudging hollow of conversation that I politely smile through, while resisting tracking the time it will take to leave,

That it is the physical desire to be sick when you’re in my space,

That it is devoid of emotion or person-hood and tied to losing all that I love.

That is the day I will have sold my soul to the demon on my shoulder, that is you.

That is the day you will get what you want and lose me forever.

Shouldn’t really make much difference to you anyway.



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