Some men call her cyanide
For she'll cause and take your pain.
To others she's the devil
Or the quest for true love's bane,
And, to those less lucky,
She's called their ball and chain.

To her you're just a play thing; she'll make you out to be a king, then she'll set fire to your throne.

We had scar-tissue
romance and ours was
a relationship of saying
goodbye—every time
we fought, every time
we fucked, and every time
we called it quits, before
picking up our knives
again

They beg you for transparency. Yet when you give them a peek behind the curtain shrouding your hear, they run in sheer fright.

She's the kind of girl who brings you to the moon without you even being aware. The kind of girl you trip on love with. The kind of girl you never forget.

The amount of her madness
depends on the amount of her love.
If she is crazy, frantic, insane with you,
then simply stated . . .
She is in love with you.