because you are looking at them and you are wonder how you can both love and hate someone with everything you have,
and you wonder why it feels like there's fire in your
chest when they look into your eyes and you think
that when they say eyes are the window to the soul
(and the heart
and the mind
and blood in your goddamnveins)
it really only counts when the blinds are closed
and you wonder how you can love someone so much that even when you would rather stick a pistol to their head and shot them down dead you can still pull them from the fire
all the while wonder if the blood on the wall is your or there’s (from the ocean from darkness
from the edge)
and you’re looking at them and wondering why Icarus choose the sun and death when you wish you had the choice to fly to somewhere this love doesn’t claw at your head,
(but at the same time oh god you understand because they are the sun
so bright and so bold and even if you did have wings you wouldn’t
be able to get away if you wanted to)
and scramble your brain until your choking battle storm of fire and rage vs ethereal aim
and finally you’re looking at yourself wondering if you are lost broken sick wrong strange desperate for feeling this way because while the line between love and hate has always been thin it shouldn't be a thread that’s ready to break.
YOU ARE READING
Adoxography
Puisi❝ Adoxography ❞ (n.) beautiful writing on a subject of little or no importance pronuciation| \a-doks-'o-graf-E/
