If it was love, then
why was the world upside down,
why was Atlas drunk
why was the universe’s crown…
If it was love, then
why did it feel like despair
why did I wish
to tear out all my hair
whenever you were there
as opposed to not there?
Living together
with someone you love
can kill
love, like
a
gun
shot
to the shin,
that is not healed,
and the shot, is left,
to bleed dry. Living together
bled our love dry.
Ask me why
I write these poems.
Why I come back to the wounds.
To disinfect them, my old love, so old, so very, very old…
With electricity.
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