Falling in Love is Masochistic

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Painted by John Park

I will never understand,
for as long as I live,
why people crave so hard,
why people ache so bad,
to fall in love.

I know that falling is nice,
falling is like flying,
and flying is nice,
but when the clock strikes 12,
one will have to pay the price.

Landing is tough,
landing is rough,
there are cuts on the face and neck,
and blood on the thighs and head.
The heart is broken into several pieces,
and air is taken out of the lungs.
The knees lose life and strength,
and the sides become so badly bent.

I hope they learn a lesson or two.
I stand by the scene and I watch,
hoping they’ll never, ever return,
but people climb on love’s hill again,
with smiles on their lips
and laughter in their mouths,
wobbling with a partner in hand,
to fall into that dark pit once more,
to die again.

The Cycle

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She holds the key to your heart,
after you hand it over to her,
and when things don’t work out between you,
she throws the key at you.
You pick the key up,
turn it anticlockwise to lock it,
and for some reason,
tell yourself that she has locked it for good,
as if she has the power to.

When you hold the key
to the heart of a new “she”,
after she hands it over to you,
you delightfully throw the key at her
when things don’t work out between you.
She picks the key up,
turns it anticlockwise to lock it,
and for some reason,
tells herself that you have locked it for good,
as if you have the power to.

Each person nurses their pain
and doctors their true feelings,
dwelling on past pain,
staying away from true healing,
until something or someone
shows up to show them

that the heart does not,
the heart does not need,
the heart does not need a key, anyway.

Thing 1 & Thing 2

Osun (Giseli Magalhães)

Thing 1 was not thirsty,
but I offered him a drink.
He drank till my cup was empty,
and threw me in me to sink.

I struggled back to shore,
you can bet that I was sore,
but Thing 2 grabbed my finger,
and told me his heart was pure.

The river of love is full again,
the river of love is me,
but Thing 2 is still famished,
’cause my cup was smashed at sea.

So tell me, ìyá mi ‘Kojú,
help me make my strength from you. 
How do I tell me that Thing 1
is all but nothing like Thing 2?

Venus in “Deadtrograde”

A plate of pain keeps
the potential heartbreaker away.
Two glasses of my old tears daily
will help me not go astray.
I am strong and I need no one’s attention,
but I want to be desired,
and I want affection,
but I was hurt,
I don’t want a repetition,
but I want love,
and I can feel the tension.

I don’t cry.
I don’t cry anymore because
there’s a pool of my tears
in my heart,
and I like to swim in it,
or go down, down, down,
and drown,
when a potential One
comes too close
to my feelings’ flat.
If anyone is to decide when I drown,
it has to be me, myself and I.
Would you give another potential
pretentious,
manipulative
dingbat
a chance to decide when you die?

Six planets are in retrograde
in my natal chart,
and venus used to be one of them,
but she’s not anymore.
My venus is dead;
a man has stabbed my sickly venus to death.

Out of Reach

The stars have remained special
because they live in the sky,
far away from our touch.
If they lived in the sand,
we would mistreat them 
and kick them around,
and they would mean nothing to us-
nothing more than mere stones.
We would get too used to them,
and we would not appreciate them.

I should have stayed out of your reach.

Unre-QUIT-ed IX

Love is a Cave:
I am in love,
but I am in it alone,
I am not in love with you,
and it hurts me to the soul
each time you remind me
that I am in love,
but you are not in it with me.

Unre-QUIT-ed VII

He never expressed it;
he imprisoned the love he had for me.
Sometimes, it would try to escape
through his mouth,
but he would swallow it again.
At other times,
it would try to escape through his hands,
but he would pull them back.
After a while, he could not
hide it from his eyes;
I could see the love in his eyes.
He would shut them tight and look away,
and when he looked back at me,
I would see the imprisoned love again-
begging for freedom,
asking for help,
screaming my name…

Decide Now

Emit a change;
it’s high time.
Come to your senses;
I’m losing mine.
Make up your mind;
I mind.
There’s only so much
that I can take;
wake.

Panty Poetry: Hurt

You suddenly become perfectly good at
reading between the lines
whenever I want you
between my legs.
It hurts
me.

Unrequitedly Requited

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“African Woman” by Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky [Oil Painting]

“I love you.”

My heart froze, but not out of fear. It was beating very quickly, and I could have sworn it was having continuous orgasms, if I had to describe the feeling. I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was nervously, intensely relieved.

He loved me.
He loved me.
He. loved. me.
Oh, God.

Then he continued, and right after he did, I wished that he hadn’t.

“I love you two, you and Leidy.”

Wait, one second! Did he say “I love you two” earlier or “I love you too”?

“You both mean so much to me and I’m lucky to have you as sisters from another mum.”

I immediately burst into laughter, and for some reason, he began to giggle too.

“You both are my babies.”

Well, he just didn’t know when to stop, did he? 

I began to laugh even louder. I laughed so much so that tears began to run down my face.
He was laughing because I was laughing; I was laughing because I thought I had just made a fool of myself, and I was deeply hurt. If he was laughing because I was laughing, he was laughing because I had made a fool of myself, because I was deeply hurt.

I so desperately wanted to sink into the ground and disappear or fly on the angel of death’s wings and never return. He loved me, that was good, but not the way I wanted to be loved.