Backwards Hate
The truth is my heart still pumps your venom, as herion to my core.
No amount of therapy can dissuade this inflexible perception, even though I tried so hard to.
I hand-stitched my heart with a 5,000 thread count kit just for you, then you sever the founding stitch and watch it unravel.
Admittingly, my heart qualifies as condemned but I'd propose on a single knee with my cloudy makeshift love.
Your heartbeat makes my involuntery infatuation more distinct.
And I hate it.
An indisputable cement lock searches desperately for the legendary handicapped key.
There was once a plastered map of our love we drew, with passion as our motivation and restoration as our objective.
The key, our compass and lock, our magnetic field.
Was it destroyed by unknown envyious spite, a hybrid creature of ignorance?
This would be the only by-product unyieldingly suitable to slit the bones of our innerconnection.
But something tells me we're not dead.
I'll hold a revival in pathetic hopes that we'd be a fraction of what we were.
Curative sutures deny their own birthright of amendment under the consent of that same unknown ignorance.
In a concentrated repulsive world filled with adversaric influences, I guess love wasn't an exception.
As a day dreaming stow-a-way of passionate, abiding love, I know how the environment of confused hatred interacts.
It tortures backwards hate so consistently that sometimes, it snaps on you.
No amount of therapy can dissuade this inflexible perception, even though I tried so hard to.
I hand-stitched my heart with a 5,000 thread count kit just for you, then you sever the founding stitch and watch it unravel.
Admittingly, my heart qualifies as condemned but I'd propose on a single knee with my cloudy makeshift love.
Your heartbeat makes my involuntery infatuation more distinct.
And I hate it.
An indisputable cement lock searches desperately for the legendary handicapped key.
There was once a plastered map of our love we drew, with passion as our motivation and restoration as our objective.
The key, our compass and lock, our magnetic field.
Was it destroyed by unknown envyious spite, a hybrid creature of ignorance?
This would be the only by-product unyieldingly suitable to slit the bones of our innerconnection.
But something tells me we're not dead.
I'll hold a revival in pathetic hopes that we'd be a fraction of what we were.
Curative sutures deny their own birthright of amendment under the consent of that same unknown ignorance.
In a concentrated repulsive world filled with adversaric influences, I guess love wasn't an exception.
As a day dreaming stow-a-way of passionate, abiding love, I know how the environment of confused hatred interacts.
It tortures backwards hate so consistently that sometimes, it snaps on you.