She never learned to live for love, nor of it

Nothingness listens,
as she runs the needle through the wall between us,
tailoring her cage,
brick by brick,
to not let the void escape from it.

The next day she goes to war,
fights against the idealization of love.

She puts on her chains like a dress,
and tiny stains of neglected goals
drawing on the blade of her sword.
Sorrow sneaks in,
while she glues her mosaic,
piece by piece,
accidentally not allowing her mind to leave her.
She didn’t envision the war as taking credit
for other people’s battles and turning blood into pledged gold.
She thought she wouldn’t slip into her abyss
because others will only see cavities.
She wasn’t that.
Nor did she believe that man could be incomplete
if he is not loved.

She must learn what it means to love herself.

Hopelessness rises
with disbelief in her throat.
It suffocates all wars while holding its breath
in lungs that are allergic to exhalations as gifts.
She never learned to live for love, not of it.
She doesn’t want to live other people’s lives.
One life is not enough for her.
She must build towers of skin in which she doesn’t live,
layer by layer,
only to not give in the outside pressure.
She’s claustrophobic,
in her skin.
She built until her knees bled,
only to make love pour out of it,
to pour down,
beneath the cramped space in it.

She divinely ripped off a piece of my skin,
called the wound her own.
Then a new form began to grow,
and the mold of sacrifice for others broke.
In the cage for herself,
protecting the voids that love can make,
she glued the mosaic,
stopping reason to stir a cocktail of mistakes.
She built towers and fortresses,
running away from the claustrophobia that is part of her.

She tore off a part of me,
and if it wasn’t me,
she would step on someone else’s body,
only not to feel trampled.

I will gladly remain an illusion
who awoke from a nightmare.
It’s time.
She’s leaving,
and I can’t locate
my body in craters
of her prints.

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