I tell you every day,
when I wake up,
a slave in your sheets,
that it doesn’t have to be true love.
I follow you from morning,
agonising over the accuracy
with which you target my soul,
by doing nothing in particular,
but being so damn persuasive.
Being in love is a messy, miserable business,
hearts lead their victims,
to their death,
tricking them into expecting everything.
I want everything,
even if it hurts,
even if I don’t know exactly what everything is.
I miss the past,
I am the puritan hearted ingenuine ingenue,
who picked apart,
your ageing heart,
transporting out of myself,
so I could watch your essence melt,
inside of my mouth,
elated candy floss.
I didn’t expect you to expertly change me.
The stalkee has become the stalked.
It has been zero days,
since my heart’s last nonsense.