Peas suck in the joy from meals.
My feet protest when I walk in heels.
I was never meant for the stage.
A fractured soul can never really age.
Did you not always love an abstract mess?
Something that suited your own vagueness?
Should this one function as a test?
Shall I call your love a forest?
A wilderness that haunts and robs
seizes the heart and directs its throbs
penetrates dreams and pushes in deeper
into the promises of a deceiver.
But every drop of sorrow from when you loved another
is a medal I cherish like none other.
Come closer and see how my scars shine
I fixed with gold this broken heart of mine.
*This piece is meant to be read as a reply to my previous post, ‘Love as a Deceiver.’