It seems like this was a bunch of BS and I just crapped it out on the computer screen. Bah, this could be seen as my protest against Valentines Day, but I doubt it's that relevant.

Flatline Lovers

To the art of love,
I am a cripple.

The portfolio of my failures
stinks with the garbage of others,
thought it is still my fault
it exists in the first place.

I am the murderer who
has to solve her own crime,
the mastermind
behind uneven pulses of longing.
Embroidery needles lust
after my blood and whisper
lost phrases of devotion.

I am upside down and
trapped between two nights -
one shining above me and the
other whining of cars and smog
below, where the war is being waged.

The baron of hearts
shoots at my leaden flight,
red streamers significant
only in the moment of victory.
In falling, it seems that only
the people down there
(or are they the real stars?) matter.

There it is:
he has triumphed again.
I am ambivalent as to this trajectory;
do I want to fly,
or do I want to die?
I cannot love as they can,
I cannot be the heart-shaped smile
they've come to expect.

There is no sun,
no canopy of summer lights to
to further deaden death.
I killed it.

To the art of death,
I am a valentine.

[feigns innocence]