Dozen

Most of my ideas about love seem juvenile.

I'm usually sweet enough to rot teeth.

It makes it much harder to mention that I'm a hierophile.

Romance feels much more sacred, but lust is seen as beneath.

If I was split into all my parts, I think love is in two.

One is soft like pastries made of Choux.

Neither are complete and I know exactly where they have rot.

Separate they've never been, tangled like tails in a knot.

Romance wants to be held, not to say lust doesn't want it the same.

Lust just assumed it was to make up for the other, it was portrayed as my only use.

Seeking out romance often felt like a losing game.

Toxic thoughts in my brain made me easier to abuse.

Lust dwindled to what would please who I wanted love from.

For someone who overthinks so much, it's odd how easy love makes me dumb.

I'd be a glutton for punishment if it makes you smile.

All of the things I do to be adored make me vile.

Wish for differences this time whilst repeating every mistake.

I'd destroy myself knowing it'd fix your ache. 

I'm only half of what you'd ever want me to be.

Being cruel makes me hope you'd never love me the way I love me.

Romance makes me feel like a tumor attached to someone beloved.

Knowing me more makes me fit less like a glove.

I know a few words, despite knowing it's bad to give yourself a label.

Irrational, depressed, angry, and unstable.

Romance wants to consume all that it knows.

For what it's worth, I know I'll do it again.

I'll debase myself and write about it then.

Lust is just the buffer between to satisfy what it thinks it owes.