The Disgusting Result and Consequence of Low Standards and Horrific Representations of Love

complimentary piece: coppice


Of all the love I have seen in this world, the man I see has been deprived of it in its entirety, devoid of its presence, denouncing proudly of its futility. Misanthropic would be generous to describe it, as I had one thought to say to him. but thought better of it:

If the world were to combust and split in two,

you wouldn’t care, would you?

I would still love you anyway, but it would give me another reason

to keep away.

Frustration, annoyance, and rage are the only human emotions you can understand.

Your feelings flow in ferocious tides that lunge and retract against the sand.

Break your little fortress of ash and black bark, and remove the thorns you’ve buried into the pits of the cherries. Am I not enough–have I not done enough? Must it take bleeding fingers and bleeding gums, the pooling of blood into sentient puddles, for me to be good enough to take up even a second of your finite lifetime? I never asked for kindnesss or affection, but I beg you for your time, even if you torture me every moment I am within your grasp.

I can vanish completely. I can become as young as a thought or as old as nothingness. I can be more beautiful than the flaxen and raven locks of your nude muses, more beautiful than your most depraved fantasy. Desire and possibility is everything and nothing when human skin that is no longer attached to a living being is in the possession of a man of your type. My body is detached from my brain is detached from my heart is detached from my soul. I am a vessel of change and corruption–take advantage of me, for you only get this one chance, this one last chance, this last one last chance. You had me entrapped in the spider’s web that spanned an entire woodland; you had my face mangled and beaten and tied up in white string; my arms and legs had grown numb for too long a time to count; and yet you had let me go… after I had suffered for nothing. So make this the last chance.

Kiss me coldly like how fingernails scrape glass–

kiss me warmly like a nailed witch’s feet set aflame–

kiss me sadly like a newly barren coffin–

kiss me happily like a husband making his wife behave.

~Sammicakes

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