Blah! Blah! Whatever...

You wanted me to write you songs of happiness and content. Romantic elegies and poetic sex. Things of which I was never so fond of. Love was for the weak. I was into the darkness with cracks of hope scattered in between, albeit for mere decoration. I didn’t want the endless kissing and terms of endearment. What I wanted was you. I wanted your soul. I wanted to see the darkest parts of you that you were too scared to show others. Vulnerability was my addiction and in seeing you in loose ends, tongue-tied and twisted, that was my content. My ode to you is natural. It isn’t filled with false words or poetic justice, but rather the anger and passion hidden from others. What I give to you is my raw emotion, uninhibited and carnal, ready to devour you whole. I give you myself in all of its unbounded glory.

“Y entonces supe que tu amor nunca fue mío… Mía sólo fue la ilusión.” — Frida Kahlo.

Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing.