An apparent intellectual,
revered amongst artists,
interviewed in reverent tones,
praised for depth stitched into dialogue,
once said:
"It’s strange how we’re cruelest to the ones we love."
Strange? Fuck no!
It is anything but strange.
It is as predictable as daylight.
It’s biology dressed as sentiment.
You can’t be cruel to someone you don’t love.
Cruelty needs comfort.
It needs closeness.
It needs the quiet arrogance
that they’ll stay.
Strangers get silence.
Acquaintances get distance.
Only lovers get carved open
in the name of honesty.
Cruelty isn’t a failure of love —
it’s the luxury of it.
Because love gives us
the softest place to strike
and the safest place to watch it bleed.
So no,
it’s not strange.
It’s routine.
It’s how we measure love:
by how much of us
the other person can survive.
If you believe otherwise,
I'm sorry to tell you this, but
you are an idiot.
If you pretend to believe
so you can be relatable
to binary brains,
I must say,
you are a rather lousy liar.
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