I Should Call This Loath, Than Love

This, us, metamorphosed.
Friends, to something where one loves the other,
to something where one is obsessed with the other
in a span of weeks.

Pushing and pulling at my wings
you cut me deep and buried me in stone affection
without a care in the world for my breath
lest it be stolen.

And should my patience be stolen
you shall know the fury I harbour/ed for you.
Chastising those who talk to me, lest they steal me from you
taking your pound of flesh.

Let that blood ooze,
you sicken me. Soaked with the remains of friendships torn
and an indulgence for far-flung heights where I suck you and you fuck me
without thought for anyone but yourself.

You disgust me.
Creature, tear your friends to shreds and push me into sodden dirt
ride my shame like an animal and take my life as yours.
You shall not win.

I fight you, push you
call you out on misdeeds and rapes of conscience
and you bully me, and break me, and push me down.
and you ignore me.

Force me into the sidelines
to watch friends race pass on iron hooves
rain down from heaven above heavy metal, my solace.
Buried in torn grass.

Bent over toilet seats,
Dirtied pride goes down like water if you drink it often enough
my salted wounds would quench your thirst soon.
But alas, they heal.

And you are left
cold and angry, energy wasted on an ire earned through servitude
to a woman called Jealousy, and a man called Greed
and a burn soon melted.