i am a being made of love.
my tears are crisp, my body stings, i do not believe i was made from love.

yet i am so full, ready to spill — onto whoever unsuspecting, for i am besotted.

love is selfish, sought out by the most lonely just to self-soothe, yet i am part of this category.

sing an aubade, give me a jayus, and i will cling to your leg, scratch and refuse to let go.

i am filled with fervency, as a cruel parasitic proof of my humanity.
you have created my laceration, one i’ll forever bear.

are my tears pretty? is my suffering admirable? does this make me lovable now? is your ardor all consuming?

the flesh and blood that covers your feminine form is just a stinging allure of you as a being, i don’t have the need to feed on anything else —

just the plasma that makes you.

i am a girl who is lachrymose, restless and anhedonic, is this what you wanted? you’re just a sadist.

i am fine —
i am free —

but i will spill

onto the bed you have pushed me off of.
for i am pathetic

Je t’aime à mourir,
i am a being made of love.