This Thing Called Love

This thing we call love.
What is it truly?
Why does it hurt us?
Why does it take away what it gives us?
With all the pain and suffering it causes us,
why do we search for it?

I look for it in the world,
but I can't find it under the black hate.
I try to feel it for my own,
but it only makes me bleed.
I try to hold it in my own hands,
but I lose it before I can find it.
I know all this,
so why do I continue to search.

I wish someone would stretch out their hand,
but I know we keep it to ourselves.
In this world we emphasize connection,
but isn't it because they try to hurt us?
I don't want to hurt anymore.
Why won't someone help me?

I feel it all around me,
trying to tear at my skin.
I hear it all around me,
laughing in my ear.
I smell it around me,
the reek of rotting flesh it leaves.
Why won't someone help me?

I can't breathe,
it's chocking me.
I can't see,
the tears it brings are blinding me.
I can't feel anything anymore,
it already numbed me to my soul.
Why won't someone help me?

It hurts to see
what causes the feelings inside me.
Everything you say only hurts me,
so why does it mean so much?
I know I want to feel alive,
but does it have to be like this?

I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
It's chocking me,
I can't breathe.

I am falling,
falling deep within myself.
That is the only haven for me.

This thing we call love.

I can't find it,
so how can I give it?
But isn't what we're supposed to do?
To continue our species?
To give our love to another to reproduce?
If it's all that simple, then why does life hurt so much.
If we're only here to carry on our race,
why must we suffer for it?

I know there has to be an answer,
somewhere, but, where?

I am hurting.
I have already lost it all.
Even if I fall now, there will be no one to catch me.
No one will notice my last cry for help,
of the stream of red from my wounds.

I have no one to help me.

Not even you.