She was the angel of slow death.
Each kiss a reminder of how
close I was
to the last.
Her heart was so big,
and so full,
and so wild;
it could not be just mine.
I would have suffocated the gypsy
spirit in her that fought so hard
that love was all that
the greeting cards said it was.
That the poet’s were right,
That the words spoken by the powerful
lovers of the world somehow meant that
love alone would conquer all. Bring down mountains
and pause the chaos in an angry universe.
She didn’t understand.
I was a destroyer of worlds. I didn’t want
to share her heart. Her wild, and her inner child,
and the magic of her solar system.
I wanted to cage it.
Not share it.
The black bird with the
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