I once killed a plant because I gave it too much water.
I tried again with a second plant, this time giving it less water, only to end up with the same result of slaughter.
I fear that love is violent, no matter how much I care for the plant.
If I care too much, it dies.
If I care too little, it dies.
I shifted my focus to caring for an ant,
It was small; it was fragile,
but it filled a hole larger than even I could comprehend.
No matter how much I wanted to love the ant,
even if you'd forced me to run a mile,
I couldn't bring myself to care for it as I did the plant,
I cared for the ant as much I could, but in the end we lacked mutuality.
My love would still remain, though I fell hurt and condemned of weakness.
The ant was fun and new,
But it was so small I could barely feel the affection it attempted to do.
In the end as we parted our ways, my heart felt absence,
though the tiny weight of the ant left with no relief,
They held a place, they left no impact nor loss of balance,
But a blemish on my skin, to mark where they have been.
I fear that love is violent, no matter how it's felt.
I tried again. One last time. A stick insect, I felt as though it were a combination of the plant and ant combined.
This time, I didn't give it too much water,
This time, I could feel its touch trail along my skin,
This time it was right, the perfect balance and I was left with no flawter.
Despite my findings, I know that in the end if we were to part, my world would spin,
My world would fall silent.
And so I still fear that love is violent
