I suppose if you were sitting by the fire, stoking the coals intently with a branding iron, and were it to find my hide, it would not shy from the mark of a romantic. If anything, the means would match the manner. For you see, that accursed thing I have deified and dedicated my life to has sharpened each of its edges and found it fitting to leave them both wedged in my chest, only to twist it at its leisure. Love, of all the underpinning emotions my nature had to submit to, why did it have to be such a bitter and venomous drive. It clouds logic and crawls from one unattainable to the next. Yet still I am to prostrate myself piously before whatever and whomever it may land upon, whiles my free hand, when given the slightest opportunity, flings uncensored personal vile in the hopes that purity and honest validation may clean it and allow it safe passage home. A lifetime of tying myself to others, albeit they blind be to it, has left my heart a gapping maw, puckering its lips and sucking at the cold air in the hopes of latching onto something to sustain it. It does not pacify easily nor for long. So when this adolescent organ does eventually find nourishment, it covets it with every inch of itself, and grows strong and large when well fed. Though no feast can last forever, so when its sustenance ceases, it is now a creature designed by the acquired love of another. Were any to refill the void, its passion would pump through the veins another made. So to the cleaver I go, and clean it. Now only the scars remain. Though I am open and able to worship yet again, my dear lord, for I have paid my pound of flesh, my penance. I have sacrificed myself at the cold alter yet again. Yet I remain devout, as zealous as I am callous. My heart lies yearning and partially numb, as the coals cough and crack. But give it tinder, oh then it shall take up its station yet again, and rage with blind fury, only to lead to me to another melancholy.
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