I wish the kitchen forks would stop flying,
I’m sick of picking up silverware.
I thought love was supposed to be beautiful.
The thick long strands of hair on my scalp
are now short and thin,
because scissors seemed glamorous when my eyes went dim.
Food is so tasteless now;
the taste buds on my tongue have gone dead,
because I’ve kissed a man who could’ve been dozens of women instead.
Waking up in a place I’ve lived in,
for so many years became so foreign,
because every night I’ve dreamt that I fell asleep in yours.
So is this what love is made for?
To eat at my senses, making my perceptions so unclear?
Is love so that I could realize that
I actually have no desire of staying here?
Love will be the death of me.
I’m terrified to fall in love, I’m afraid it’ll tear me apart,
so until then I’m going to forge my feelings,
in order to spare my beating cold, heart.