Love is a dreadfully glorious death.

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…wish you were dead, so that your decaying bones turned to sacred ash beneath a marker I can lie my broken-openly beating heart apon, when I need to be near you. 

But you aren't, and I am left to oblige your wishes to never see me again. You still walk this earth, and I still bleed for you, mourn and wail for you, seeking you in every lover I have taken since. 

Anesthetize me, I beg of men's bodies. My thirst never quelled, my memory is still in love with…

By Susan M. Conway