thorns and other maladies

58

i am sick of writing love poems
sick of desire and cravings
sick of red bitten lips
and cruel intimacy
i want something more meaningful
i want to cry like thunder
and rip up the pages
feel my tears as they
blur the ink
i want to paint the skies
with red rain
strike down the roses
with jagged lightning
smell the smoke
as i burn down the meadow
and watch the daisies go up
in flames
this house is full of
shattered glass and ashes
and i am desperate to clean it
to sweep out the chimney
and re-pane all the windows
so love shall have no place here
with it's destruction
and glass-shattering yearning
with its headache-inducing chaos
that leaves me bed ridden
and writhing in the ache
no, love shall have no place in me
anything except for love
anger or melancholy
or joy—if she ever
decides to show up—
anything except for love
i'll gladly erupt on kitchen tables
or dig myself six feet under
i'll even kiss the sunshine
off of sunflower petals
but i will not write another love poem
i will not yearn or crave
or burn like a matchstick
i will not worship or praise
or fall on my knees
not again
not now that the bleeding
has slowed
not now that the wound
has started to clot
and stitch itself together
no, i cannot fall prey to love again
to red bitten lips
and cruel intimacy
to desire and cravings
this girl is meant for more
than searching for meaning
in a meadow of roses
this girl is meant for more
so i will search for meaning
in everything else
and i will find it
i will find it
and love will not be with it
i will find it
and it shall be so much more
than matchsticks and praise
more than the blood i've lost
so yes, i am sick of writing love poems
i will write something greater
full of thunder and red rain
and tears that blur the ink
i will write something greater
and love
will have nothing to do with it