Love is A Liar

burning in its own flames, simmering

tomatoes and thyme at midnight.

in silence, it will feed you delusions,

while you sit with your legs folded

in devotion, or worse yet, affection.

there's relief in knowing doom

is always inevitable. a constant 

possibility of leaving the heat on

for far too long. back at the bottom again,

scraping black, brown, orange, 

marooned, with you, one summer night

you asked, would you rather be wrong

or a liar? I stayed quiet and ate

my heart right out of the oven.

burnt lips, fingers, and tongue.

does penitence taste as sweet as longing?

can forgiveness be served as a last meal? 

for I am lying about how much I love 

and I am wrong about it in every way.