Modern Romanticism

To be stubborn,
being torn
under the slightest,
discernable sign
that enough was our
unwanted tragedy.

We were more
when we wanted more
to cut our arms with,
filling moats
with our blood,
dividing our states
into ways we bend,
ways we break.

Once had been it,
until we began counting
the steps we took
to get there.

That sight had brought
our hunger to stir,
our teeth to begin biting
into our surroundings.

We were dreaming
of storms to race,
of language to filter,
vows to retrace.

We had to decide
what to allow
to be on the inside,
before we’d overflow
with all that hurts,
with all that stops
our hands, our arms
from letting go.