I seek to receive what I can never retrieve.
There must be a cure.
Ultimately what I abhor, I adore.
I must be a masochist, locking myself in your chains.
Nearing the verge of fracture,
I can no longer withstand pretending nor your pretension.
I have been your consistency when you needed me.
My patience has expired, wishing for love to retire.
Poured into a bottomless cache.
A release, some relief, if I must let go.
Too burdensome for my soul to bear at length.
Comfort in leaving the truth in your ear.
Now your response, allow me to predict.

When logic begins to listen to the heart,
What it wants, what it will never have,
Cannot leave the past to rot,
The cycle should have turned to soil by now,
Nothing grows, no richness sown,
Infected by the traces that blight the new.
Irruptive, I’m indignant.
Hell hath no fury like a woman ridden with malady.
Bore by your compression,
bet you wish you could reverse.
Wasn’t such a wise exercise.