Drought-Stricken Love


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

2 thoughts on “Drought-Stricken Love

  1. Because love is such an amazingly beautiful gift, you’d think it would be so easy to give and recieve it again, but it’s not anymore. Before, there was no special box to wrap it up in, but now there’s a box that is difficult to put together, a thousand types of wrapping paper to choose from and the final touch, a bow of FEAR on top.

    Once again my heart is moved by your words. How could it not be?
    Thank you,

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