Ryley Clarke
How quickly love turns into hate
If you ever questioned how much I loved you,
only look at how much I despise you now.
I grasp at the straws you feed me as if a depraved horse.
I beg of you farm boy
take off my saddle
and let me run free of your weight.
Of your whippings
Oh to love so intensely welcomes the risk to hate even more.
Why?
Had I not deserved the world as you once thought?
Are your flowers once gifted to me out of love now as gifts of a treaty?
They carry no sorrys,
maybe even no love.
“Let us not fight, until my petals wither into the color brown”
the flowers speak.
Yet each time the flowers die,
I die with them.
A living corpse,
I am with less love to offer you after each death.
My love for you taking the size of a bug when once it was a gentle giant.
And when I am,
in default,
disappointed once again,
I reach for my hammer to smash the helpless thing.
In a rage
I smash, smash, smash at the little insect until it shrinks smaller and smaller –
time is running out.
My blood has turned so sour even the carnivores cringe at its scent.
Little birds peck at my brain mimicking my voice.
“What would have happened if I never met you?”
the voices taunt.
Day and night they bicker to me.
Maybe I shall put on the chains I have grown accustomed to so you can see the weight I carry. Maybe I shall scream and cry as I so desperately needed to so many times before.
Maybe then you will realize what you have done to me.
Please.
Let me love you again.
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.
Don’t you miss being loved?
Don’t you miss being loved?
Mother Mary has listened too long and grown too familiar with my voice.
I have become sick of begging, bargaining, praying.
A thief you are, stealing parts of me and hiding them too well.
Dig them up!
You are the torture device specifically designed for me. You have broken me and you have failed to break me. Either way, you remain cruel.
My will runs on fumes now.
Open your eyes and look at what you have done.
I yearn for all of that you have taken from me.