Her love is a rare flower that only blossoms in the cold
Atop mountains insurmountable
beneath uncountable sheaths of snow
she basks in the tempests
your chaos ensues
and clenches the thorns
of the reddest of your roses.
Damned must be the man
who doesn't collapse at her beauty
Whose heart doesn't stutter
at the intensity of her obsidian hue.
She saw novels in place of faces
the stories that lurk beyond your eyes
a boy with a bleeding soul
not a villain clutching crimson knives.
It wasn't her fault
that she loved blindly,
unbudgingly, with no care
but inevitable it was
that one of her villains
will leave her beyond repair
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artwork: love and pain/ vampire by Edvard Munch
