I used to think your Love was brutal,
that you wanted my Heart ripped
to shreds and stitched back together
in the name of Love and marriage.
No, dearest one. You thought that devotion
meant being on fire and running yourself ragged,
that giving me your Heart meant bringing yourself
down in order to lift me up; I won’t stand for that
anymore; I never did, you know that now, my Beloved.
Looking back I see that now, but when being “on fire”
was the “proper” way to worship a god, when the way to
be married to one was to sacrifice and give everything–
What, I’m supposed to push all your limits? Test all your fears
for the “greater good” of your well being? Make myself the center of
your very world–when you were never given that space to yourself?
Your Heart is not my canvas to paint upon, dearest one, it is your own.
My anxiety is screaming at me, that you’re supposed to turn harsh–
you look so confused–that you’re going to be angry at me for “failing”–
I’ve been away, dearest one; why the fuck would I care what you did when
I’m gone? You’re handling yourself well, you’re smiling, you’re happy. You’ve
surrounded yourself with friends and family, you know now you’re not alone.
I once thought loving you was supposed to hurt–but now I know it isn’t.
Pain never comes from true love, dearest one.
We are not a tragedy, my Dark Star.