Modern Romanticism

Make me bleed

Over thee

The running wine from wrists that hold captives

Riding endless currents

To their bitterness.

I have become one of my own,

As just merely a vessel in these wrists.

Love was once all we had

For ourselves,

And now I am fixated on the endless hurt,

The endless war

In my mind,

While you struggle with the knot of the noose.