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what is love but a rose with thorns?
a velvet touch on dry skin,
parched for loveㅡthe water of a dried riverbedㅡ
(for a river without water is no river at all;
the river only wishes for waterfalls)
yet the rose of loveㅡ
grows within the cracks of the riverbed,
feeding on our dreams to be held
(we hate ourselves for yearning)
and pushing at weathered wallsㅡthe pressure growsㅡ
pushing, the cracks lengthenㅡfarther, widerㅡ
our soul explodesㅡoutwards, burning, tearingㅡ
sharp rocks of pain sinkingㅡbeneath numbing currents pouring in
we bleed so much we feel no more painㅡ
and we drownㅡthe rose of love still growing,
the water pours out our nose, ears, mouthㅡ
choking and strangling and suffocating,
the rose grows from our lungs,
thorns tearing apart our throat and tongueㅡ
we live and die from love no matter if we are old or young.

i dislike eros (cupid). the main reason why i think he (or they) does (do) what he (or they) does (do), is because he (they) cannot experience love himself (themself).


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