...

i could write a poem,
an ode, a sonnet,
words artfully crafted,
capturing all that was,
that is, and
can be.

but all you need,
is look in my eyes, and
find the loathing,
the hatred, and
the pain,
disguised,

as love.

...

there is this lie,
we pass around,
light as a feather,
heavy as unshed tears,
coarse as last evening,
smooth as a cat's eye,

this lie,
never uttered,
sweet as the first taste of blood,
bitter as tomorrow,
hot as a mid-summer night,
cold as truth,

i love you ...