To Love

I don't know quite
what you did to me,
but whatever magic you wielded,
it worked.
I can honestly say
that I've never been this head-
over-heels,
no-head-on-my-shoulders,
far gone.
And I can honestly say
that I'm the biggest fool
the world has ever seen,
yet I can no longer conceive
of being anything
else,
and sometimes I'm convinced
that that's all I really want,
as awful as it sounds.
The battle wages,
head versus heart
round six billion and two
(and if experience could speak,
it would probably advise my head
to just throw in the towel),
and what do I (what does 'I'
even mean anyway?) want?
I don't fucking know.
Him.
But an honest him, a trustworthy him,
and that's something
I just can't seem
to wrap my mind around:
my fault or his?
I want to know
just how cheap his words are,
and how he feels when he speaks them.
Do they feel dirty
coming out of his mouth?
Or make him swell with pride
at his cunning words spinning webs,
covering his tracks,
wrapping those nearby carefully
around his finger?
Or perhaps it saddens him
to speak the truth
and have so much up against him
that his truth becomes blurred?
I am drawn to you, to him,
like a moth to light,
which I fucking hate
because, really,
have you ever watched a moth in action?
Sucker. And yet that's me.
Spinning in circles in my head,
trying to reach the goddamn light,
despite my knowledge
of Icarus' tragic
fall.
I'm too high
off the fucking ground,
everything looks so
minute,
my head is in the clouds
and I can't fucking see
straight.
The sun is probably
misleadingly close
and if I'm not careful
my wings could melt.
Or is this already the downward spiral
I find myself in?
Love, seriously, fuck you.
I'm mad - or -
"Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp'd and tormented and—"
- and quoting Shakespeare.
Seriously, love, fuck you.
Why did you force me
to create such a high pedestal
that I cannot even see him
whom I placed upon it?
Most inconvenient,
and pretty much just fucking bullshit,
but goddammit I'm powerless against you, love,
and what can one do?
Remember all the dandelions
and shooting stars I wished upon?
Well, all of those wishes were for him (and you),
and sadly I can't say that one of them
turned out true,
then again maybe I just can't tell.
(Oh, second guesses,
you are so full of shit,
then again, perhaps correct.)
I don't know if I should keep on wishing,
maybe one day,
my wish will come true,
right Jiminy Cricket?
I never gave much heed to what I deemed
romantic sap, idealistic shit,
but I've been turned into
a romantic sap, an idealistic shit,
giving too much heed to it all.
Rationality, why, oh why,
have you forsaken me?
Left to my ridiculous thoughts
weaving their ridiculous plans
of hopeful bliss
or what I think is happiness,
I approximate: I'm fucked.
Well, shit.
I don't know if Bill understood you,
(I don't know if anyone does)
but I think he knew you better than I,
"Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke,
cold fire, sick health!
...This love feel I".
Love, you are forever transforming,
and today you rear your ugly head.
And what tomorrow,
a tender kiss?
Or perhaps a tackle at the knees?
(Don't be offended,
you always make the lowest of blows,
I would return the favour
if only I could figure out your weakness.
Samson had hair,
Achilles, a heel,
Creon, hubris,
me, him.
But you, you are impenatrable,
unbreakable,
and everyone's always saying 'love wins',
whatever that means.
Perhaps I'm no match for you,
but I'm going to give you
a run for your money,
and maybe your strength will overcome me,
but my rationality, I swear to you,
will fight tooth and nail
just to see that you don't render us all
fools,
and maybe that's my hubris talking,
but c'mon, let's not lie,
the force is strong with me.
And fuck, you're winning already
because I definitely made that reference
for him.)
Love, I know you're probably sick
of the endless stream
of ranting passionate poetry
directed at you, always,
by suckers like me,
but that's just what you get,
for being you,
and taking a whole lot more (sanity)
than you ever seem to give.
As a final request, love,
I'd really appreciate it
if you would shut the fuck up
long enough for the voice of reason
to get some words in edgeways,
as then I might stand a fighting chance.
Thanks.
With love,
Corissa