My Girl Only Burns Her Darkest Pages

A Tortured Poet’s Regret — No3

crooners —
there are ones in every man’s heart,
she supposes,
but she knows better than to court them.

love is a kind of sickness,
a flagrant danger of the senses —
or so she supposes
as time begins to spread itself thin again.

love
finds its way
down the alleyways of being
again and again and again.

oh, do you ever think
that there might be a kind of fascination
to it all in silent motions beckoning,
the militant might of meaning in mortality?

she’s a monster
in the way she views herself,
and she views others as monsters too
who can only harm and hunt and kill.

if love were to ever enter through a door,
then she might kiss herself goodbye
just to know what it’s like to mourn
a special kind of heartbreak reeling.