“I said I would heal with you-instead you burned my love.”

i cannot breathe in any more sadness-suffering.

He says your poems whisper too loudly of ugly truths. He forgets he authors the endings.

I wept that everything he made was pretty I forgot that I, too, was an art-the girl with a soft heart.

To be held safe in our vulnerabilities -isn’t that what we should call love?

Your poems are so beautiful I almost forgot the pain you lived to pen them-from pain comes with beautiful things.

I live in fear go grieving you-please be the love that doesn’t leave.

While you’re posting pretty pictures I am writing love letters to you love & our priorities.

It is not your job to carry every burden to heal every heart-your love is a divine blessing.

I said “I need a love that won’t break me” while still choosing from broken boys-self-destruction.

He told me ‘I must be a story’ but for me-he always was.

You blame your father but it was your mother who did not keep you safe -why you won’t trust women.

My sweet girl: of course he has to object project & reject for if he didn’t he’d have to admit that he loves you -wise words from her therapist’s office.

You are the only one who lost -the rest stayed.

I am proud of the love I gave you it was laced in loyalty & light.

Children raised by mothers who do not keep their children sheltered from the wrath of their fathers, end up mistrusting women.

You make the pain I make it art-the girl with the soft heart.

Sulfur, when burning, absorbs oxygen gas; the resulting acid is considerably heavier than the sulfur burned; its weight is equal to the sum of weights of the sulfur burned and the oxygen absorbed.

You have never loved me as I love you–never–never! Yours is not a passionate heart–your heart does not burn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite– not a woman!

For you I know I’d even try to turn the tide.

Love isn’t about when you first meet. It’s about the many, many years you spend together, when you’re trying to keep that flame burning.

How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.

In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate.

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?

I guess this has been my confusion; where I went wrong. Thinking that love could possibly come as a thing without the burns.