Death by Poetry

The words looked harmless at first, standing there dressed up (or is it down?)
in their elegant despondency. Beckoning
each passer-by with delicate wares made up of images like “palest eyes of Sunday blues” and “languid Friday.” A mere glance was all it took for their siren’s song to be unleashed. Weaving through the air, they danced in slow motion, falling, burrowing through
creases of skin and tears and “have mercy” and wreaked their way through lungs and fingertips and memories tinged in shades of coral. The human heart stood not a chance. Beating out its last, an almost-whisper echoed on the breeze—
Is this exquisite death or
excruciating
bliss?

This poem is an ode to Rachel’s poem, Sunday hues. Read it and fall hysterically in love, get your heart mangled in the process, and walk away a better person for it all.

 

 

*Photo from ArtStation by Alexey Popov

A Thousand Deaths

Pure love is absolute freedom. It gives the object of its affection unbridled power to come and go as it pleases. Even if that means that the object of its affection chooses to walk away from that source of pure love.

Let me tell you what love is not. It is not stifling and controlling and domineering. It does not mask itself under pretenses of worry or care while it slowly squeezes the life from you under the weight of possessive control. It does not lash out at you when you have failed to carry out its expectations. It does not determine your life for you while your self-will dies a slow and torturous death.

That is obsession.

It only took me a thousand deaths to finally realize the difference.