And I have seen what love does.
Razor blades against soft flesh.
Blood poured like mulled wine
into glasses that get shattered
against walls of hurt and blame.
I pay no heed to the rising thirst
that wells from beneath my skin.
I am dry bones, dust-filled veins,
arid landscapes of wasted hope.
Here, there is nothing left in me
that can bleed upon the ground.
Here, there is nowhere love can
grow in this drought soul of mine.
But still, even without the rains,
a flower will bloom in the desert,
and I cannot help but pick petals
that break through parched soil.
They are blown into the distance,
and the echo of my hopeful voice
is carried upon the summer winds.
He loves me, he loves me not.
Image courtesy theodysseyonline.com