My heartache is that there is no heartache.
It’s just an empty bottle. It’s not even cracked.
Please let hate be my fate – It’s too late for love as
you're still here and
this page is an inkwell of lost echoes that
slides and glides and bides into white noise.
I can’t hear noise. I can't write.
No – there is no disgust. My eyes don’t bleed tears and
my knees aren’t a guillotine that slices through air and
my heart has beaten passion.
Hate is passion. Love is passion.
I just don’t care.
Why are you still here?
This kitchen is my prison. Let me be.