June 18, 2010


There is no love. No more love. I've severed the morphine drip. Dripping that clear solution that imitates love. Hallucinates love. Spinning in the tube in a downward spiral for the world to see. For weeks.Tie dye color wheel spins until the nausea puts me to the floor. And I can't take it anymore. That hybrid beast of mystical fancy and hardcore triple ex crush topples me, stomps me, gores me. Black eyes and spinning heads. My morphine was never real. This love was never real. You warned me. And I knew it. But I wanted that sticky morphine. That subcutanious placibo inserted with the keys of a keyboard. That clear tube under my skin, releasing a false sense of serenity. Sense of ecstacy. Ecstacy of interest. That interest in me. That never was. Oozing in my veins, thick in my blood, changing me. I'd change back, out of spite but I lost who that was. That person, full of angst and contempt. I hate that you found the love in me. Nurtured found-love patched together like some assemblaged art piece in a stark and cold museum. I suture my heart. The heart that never was. Piece it back together and pretend it was never open. Never ever open. I was broken. Am broken. Will be broken and embarassed. I meant it all but didn't mean to write it. Damning evidence that will add to my list of curses. Now, I'll put my wings away and drift back into my soulless coma. Where there is no love. Will be no love. Because love is not real. My love was never real.

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