The Curse of Love

Say “love” again; pronounce it like a curse
that curls your poisoned passion in a ball
of naked flesh.  Your spell becomes perverse
the moment that you think the word at all.
Say “love” as if the power was the word
or, like the scars and wrinkles of your skin,
bears depth.  Such marks can only be obscured
by magical futility.  Within
your shallow beauty, stretched too pale to hide
the malice of a life of seething hate,
there beats a ghostly pulse; your heart has died.
The spell of love you utter is too late.
It trapped me once until my soul discerned
that love is nothing given nor returned.

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