The Cycle of Love

Everyone knows I'd walk on eggshells
for you. I'd be set for life
if I could make you French toast and scrambled eggs.
Everything about you is perfect
from that scar on your chest to the cowlick on your head.
You, my dear, may have the key to my heart;
hell, have my whole heart
and make it yours.
You make everyday seems like spring
with the sound of your voice
and the flowers you give me.
Your presence itself causes nothing but glitter
to run through my veins. I have
never felt this good, this alive
without you.
You bring me life,
but you take it all away,
everything you gave me.
My heart: you throw it on the ground
and stomp it to a bloody pulp.
They say everybody has a falling-from-Heaven moment,
while you fell straight through to Hell.
You've crushed the eggshells,
rubbed my face in the scalding hot eggs.
My wrists are sliced, and the glitter leaks out
into the drain.
My world is winter; the ice settles over the empty remnants
of my poor heart. I can't help but feel nauseous;
you've hurt me so bad,
but I still love you.