it is so difficult to love.
an extension of yourself, offering your roots
to an unknown force,
malicious or benevolent
it begs the question.
is anyone truly "in love"
masking the exhaustion
breathlessness from breathing
the same air as them?
or is it a lie we tell ourselves
"i love you"
but you feel queasy when they touch you
a reminder of your infidelity to the cosmos
i am not made to be loved
i am a supermassive black hole
this Earth's atmosphere is my event horizon
i am drowning in the air's oxygen.
i am a stellar phenomenon
you'd think that's egotism, but all supernovae do is decimate
they turn light to darkness
dull light to infinite void
this thing we call "love" is a lie.
blank space.
cannon fodder.
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
