Modern Romanticism

You were educated
by disbelief,
entertained by only
what you want
to believe.

It runs through you,
the denial
of what’s true.

Love is a petal
among dozens
you can burn.

It’s heavy for me
to hold onto,
with thin wire
as my connection
to a presented,
cemented vow.

It cannot be
held for much longer,
because I’ll collapse
into the void,
if I cannot
remain as the one
you avoid.

I’ll return,
bleeding alongside
the sickness
that you operate.

It’s like a machine,
with the faces
that have seen
only your worst.