Wednesday, May 11, 2016


She was broken, once,
bleeding. Her body had been battered,
beaten down, burned alive by
love, too hot to touch,
or so she believed.

She was empty, then,
hollow through. Her mind had been scattered,
eaten out, sucked dry by
love, needed too much,
or so she believed.

She was confused, again,
directionless. Her dreams had been shattered,
flung about, lacerated by
love, slave to its clutch,
or so she believed.

She was naïve, see,
stupid. None of it mattered,
crying so loud as if tortured by
love, a victim as such…
but no one believed.

About this piece

When I first started writing this piece, it was about a friend: she lies to herself and others, and refuses to let go of what was never hers to begin with. As the poem evolved, it became about the way we hold onto unhealthy relationships and tell ourselves that's what love is meant to be, even as we doubt every word we speak. And in its final (for now) iteration, it is about how those relationships drive us into depression. First published on
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