The Anatomy Of Love: A Three Act Tragicomedy

I. Genesis of the Delusion

You mistook descent for devotion —

“She must’ve fallen from heaven,” you said,

as if gravity were a compliment

and poetry began

where observation ended.

I hope her spine is steel,

her hips, tempered iron —

because one day she’ll realize

your interior is emptier

than a priest’s promise:

hollow, echoing,

sanctified only by your own voice.

II. The Great Vomiting of Verse

You write sonnets about her eyes —

constellations, oceans, galaxies —

as if vocabulary could substitute

for emotional literacy.

You’d kill for her smile?

Try surviving her silence.

You think love is butterflies?

That’s your gut decomposing

under the rot of recycled metaphors

you dared to call feelings.

Hope your ribs are malleable —

love will bend them backwards,

not out of passion,

but beneath the weight

of expectations you never asked

if she even shared.

III. The Temple and the Farce

You call it making love,

but what you really make

is a recurring deposit

of insecurity,

into a temple

that demands reverence

you’ve never learned.

She seeks worship.

You offer routine.

Foreplay, to you,

is an ancient dialect —

dead, ignored,

buried beneath grunts

and the missionary position

of your imagination.

Her body becomes scripture

you never read

but quote liberally.

Orgasms become sacrifice.

And faith, like a rash,

spreads —

until it burns.

I hope the day she slices through the incense,

walks past the altar,

and declares your worship void,

you finally taste the bitterness

of every fantasy

you never earned —

And may your diary of love diarrhea

have enough empty pages

to mop up the blood and tears

from entries and exits

torn so violently

you couldn't tell one from another.

Because love 

in it's bared out bones, 

isn’t ballads or stars.

It’s war,

waged in quiet kitchens.

It’s silence thick enough

to drown both the poet

and the poetry.

It’s the slow erosion of fantasy

until only the bland, basic truth remains.

And truth be told:

You’ve never been loved.

Only imagined.

In borrowed verses.

And illusions for reflections.