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Un-loving

She didn’t love like other people do. Actually she did not love, she un-loved.

She was always rushing in. She wore her heart in her sleeve and what she liked the most was to have her heart stolen.

With her heart inside her chest she was just getting drunk.

What she used to do was weird. You see, she didn’t know how to build her love. She only knew how to decompose it. Like tearing down a house

piece by piece

nail by nail.

Adoring her heart-thieves she used to stay with them

in a battle that would last for so long as the time she needed to take her heart back.

Piece by piece

drop by drop.

And when she would finally take it. The battle was over. Love was over. Utterly and completely.

Almost psychotropic

“On the surface simplicity But the darkest pit in me It's pagan poetry Pagan poetry“

#erratic_confessions