Beautiful! And not imposed; the standard you are meets no other standard,
It is my standard, mine for beauty and dignity!
Oh, how pitiful I must seem to your own strength,
Look at me unraveling,
A fair thing burning at your stake.
How else does one become what they are without love?
Pain? Breath? Missed opportunities and turmoil?
How else do I love you than with such passion my own head
Must be beaten to a sufficient pulp before I know that I’m forgotten in my memory.
I must become what you become,
I must be, how you be.
That is the way of Love, is it not?
Transformation, idealism, corruption of one’s soul…
For I am so old in mine, its rickety spine and copper bones
Can’t plead any more.
I need as much as I can be given.
I need the wealth of my desires restored.
Why does it occur so backwards?
So I love you, and not myself?
Why must I love you first before my heart begins to see its own surroundings?
My organs, my ribs,
My passive aggressive and ultra-impressive tendencies.
When will I stop and so deeply inhale the scent of my roses?
And why, oh why most rhetorically why, must I feel the need to do only as you ask?
To “be” only for you.
To me, that is not love.
That is darkness, that is oppression wearing garments of disguise,
Just so my eyes, so full of wonder,
Are mercilessly deceived.
This is awful.