Feeding the Flames
You built me up, brick and mortar,
As calloused hands urged me to climb.
You stitched me up, wings still bleeding,
As wilted feathers begged me to fly.
You picked me up from hell fires raging
As scorched lips prayed for my soul.
And I tore you down with tainted dreams
As these desolate eyes watched the world burn.
You’re Loving People Wrong
You're loving people like your parents loved you.
You're loving them when you're bored, when you're sad, when they can give you something.
You're loving the people who love like your parents.
They're cold, they're flighty, they don't like to answer your calls.
You're loving people like they're adults.
You expect them to love you like you're a child, unconditional, patient, kind.
But you're loving them like they have grown up.
They haven't.
You're loving people romantically, not realistically.
You love them because they're adventurous, loving them feels homey, it feels right.
It's not right. It's not wrong but it's not right. It's just life.
They're just as unstable and deeply dangerously human as you are.
You're loving the people you think can read your mind, take swims in your grey matter.
You're loving the idea of divine and instinctual oneness, an idea which is false.
They are not your counterpart. They are their own whole. So are you.
Life, I've learned, is about where our wholeness decides to touch.
You're loving people like you love yourself.
You love them when convenient, when you're reminded to, when they're easy to love.
You treat them, to some extent, like the waste of space it's easy to think you are.
They aren't. You're not. No one is.
You're loving everyone wrong.
