Ρεαλιστρια του κωλου

Love? It isn’t sweet. It is a cathedral that burns from within, while you kneel in the ashes calling it sacred.

You only begin to love when they wound you… not with malice, but with the elegance of unspoken absence, and yet you still see the sun rising from the corners of their name.

I have kissed the knives in their voice, and still called it music. I have bled beneath their indifference, and still wrapped my ribs in the memory of their laughter.

Isn’t that what love is?

To be shattered by the very hands you once reached for salvation, and yet… to still believe those same hands could rebuild your ruins with a single glance?

They broke me… not loudly, but in the kind of way that flowers die when winter forgets to speak.

And I, I kept calling them spring.

Because love, the true kind, isn’t made of soft sonnets and perfect nights. It’s made of bleeding constellations, devotion that survives the fire, and the cruel miracle of still choosing them with every splinter left in you.

You only love when you can’t stop even after everything in you is begging you to.

Blood in my hands Pain in my throat The life in my hand Is long gone The blood spills Like the ink of a poet And the eyes are still Like the paused breath I spill I have killed another life The life is long gone It is nothing new Nor the habit has gone old . The killer is me The corpse is mine The life that I have taken Was always mine. I have poisoned my soul To make the grief my death's door. I have spilled my blood out To make others my beloved. I have killed myself a thousand times Yet I never die Yet I live and live Till my soul can never cry

A waste of time