A Starved Lover -- A Spoken Word

Us, we love hard.

We fight hard.

We hurt fast, but we heal fast.

Frankly, we meld together fast.

Nothing scares you away — not the future, not my past…

You intimately met the vicious, lively, alluringly heinous Merriment.

It was brutally exposing; you didn’t relent.

You briefly caught a glimpse of Morose.

You met my ravager lovers — you saw them both.

Almost pushed away, skeptically keeping your fingertips locked,

you came to see me past them; their hold was firmly dropped.

What they had devoured and fiend on, we built back two-fold;

the kind of foundation for growing old. 

So why must one of us turn away? 

Submit our heart to disappointment and decay?

My burning body crawls at the sight of you —

my abdomen aches, pleads for your indulgence too;

My scars bellow out to me, "I don't deserve you.”

My mind whispers to me, "I don't need you.”

For my focus should be vertical and upright,

but is instead horizontal, full of spite.

I wasn’t desiring.

hope wasn’t firing.

Not until you came along.

Together, my mess and your suppress — together we belong.

Then, like in a fire and a flood,

everything I knew, planned, and wanted disintegrated — as if I had it all wrong…

My blood clots, my jaw locks,

protecting me from the temptation that is you.

For the less I encounter you, the more I see the “proper” plan through.

The purest love, the strongest bond — we lack.

It’s the kind of love you can’t muster, can’t act.

I love all that's in you, except that He is not.

I love all of you — and this I can’t construe. It just can’t be taught.

My lips, worn so tightly bound,

fused by agonizing groans — never to be spoken, never to be found.

Your mere presence causes my heart to race, my bones to shake.

My mind is in a battle with itself, only spinning and constant ache.

O my love, my muse, 

Why must I fight for you? 

And why must I refuse?

There must be a way — for our day.

You are my epic love, so fun!

I never imagined, never fathomed, I would be on the run —

away from you.

My will has withered to be frail.

My mind drudgingly derailed.

I am not coy — plainly burned,

from our ridiculous, perceptively fantastical joy.

Now I’m simply — negate of any ploy.

For I cannot explain this beauty

that has become true brutality.

There we stood,

trembling, sniffling, catching our breath well as we could,

The realest connection we knew — merely, depart.

She chose her soul over her own heart.