This "love" - it tastes metallic and feels like some kind of murder, like lungs tangled in vines and scratched against thorns but instead of bleeding, daffodils bloom from within the suffocation.
(It is this kind of love - unrequited, unarticulated.)
They reach (frighteningly quickly) up my throat and I choke, but love is cruel and clamps its hands around my neck and all I can do is allow it to turn me into some kind of display, a monument that comes with a warning: she loved and she loved and it was fatal … this is the moral of her story.
It is also alike to the sour aftertaste of apple cider left out for too long, and yet I still dwell on it as if it were a drug, an exotic wine that I can't possibly get enough of, so I let it turn me into a hopeless wreck, my lovesickness worn like a halo.
Now Heaven's walls are scrawled with poetry - I did it, I wrote those in pomegranate juice. The remnants of it stain your fingers and lips, and I have you etched into memory - a finely-painted, half-finished portrait.
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but it can't be wrong if it's you.
So kill me, and make it good and holy.