It's not love until you make me hate your guts.
I might say that love is some trick of the mind into making you mate,
That it is merely a chemical reaction in the brain.
But if Love came knocking at my door right this second,
I'd fling it open, take Love's hand
And smack my face into theirs.
At first, Love and I would thwart the clichés.
Love would find in me their quintessential dreamgirl—I'd be the cool girl.
The she-doesn't-mind-that-I-have-a-girl-bestfriend girl.
The she-doesn't-bother-me-when-I'm-hanging-with-the-bros girl.
The she-likes-to-watch-other-girls-with-me girl.
But really, it's just me being a people-pleaser.
It's just me, acting indifferent, unable to open up,
Because I feel too much and I don't know how to show that
In a way that wouldn't send you looking for the next bus out of here.
So I would either suffocate you
Or treat you like a complete stranger.
But if I love, I swear I'll love with all my words.
If we're made from stardust, I'll make a habit of drinking fire.
I'll breathe all 26 alphabets that birth shooting stars
And exhale them into every poem I write.
I'll morph myself into every word you say
And then drive you away with my nonchalance.
Because it isn't love until I pine
Over not having enough attention.
Because it isn't love until I tell you
That your presence drives me into suffocation.
Because it isn't love until you make me burn like the stars
Where our love is written in cursive scripture.
