I Wrote A Thing About Love

Everyone around me speaks only of love, it seems,

They talk and blush about stolen kisses and longing glances

Yearning hearts, that shatter violently, rose thorns and crushed dreams

(I listen to them, and I read what they write,

And I think to myself,

“Romance can’t be the only way one can love, right?”)

They sigh and weep over jealousy, the glances others sneak

To what they consider theirs, only theirs

Then they lean back, and they wonder, why their relationships have become so bleak

(I hear what they say, and I look at what they show,

And I think to myself,

“Love doesn’t mean you have to be possessive. Isn’t that something they should know?)

They laugh about the abuse they face, the vitriol that’s spit out violently

They see nothing wrong in the craters that mark the walls

They focus on the dry shores of beauty, and ignore the sea that conceals the ugly 

(I watch them giggle with the pain behind their eyes

And I think to myself,

“How can they still believe their lies?”)