my damaged heart does not care now,
whether it is one of gold or
graphite

it's hurting itself every minute,
its walls firmly in place.

if you ever had to paint me a mystical canvas,
do paint me the colour of dirty blood,
because the colour love makes me puke.

it's so maddenly simple to figure out,
yet so painstakingly vicious to be a victim of,

red was never the colour of love,
for real.
it was always black,

drawing us in with its enticing haziness,
the labyrinth of its alluring charm.

but what we failed to see
was that blood turned rogue,
always turns black.

and here we are, doused in a bubbling liquid, on every lonely night that passes,
wondering if our hearts were too weak

or the love too sweet?