What is love

What is love

What is love?
A liar made of mist,
a rainbow fleeing your touch,
a desert hallucination
with teeth.
Love is an echo in a coffin—
hollow as the promises
that buried you.
Fuck love.

Love brings nothing.
No wealth,
no joy,
no mercy.
Just perfumed deceit
to disguise the stench of lust.
We drape our filth
in velvet words
because honesty
would expose the animal in us.
Fuck love.

Love is poison disguised
as sweetness.
Two fools gulping acid
with trembling smiles,
calling it romance
as it eats through bone.
A relationship built on love
is a home built on smoke—
collapse is inevitable,
and the rubble is your fault.
Bleed the other dry—
that is the only rule.
Love is disposable,
flushable,
worthless as used tissue.
Only idiots worship it.
Fuck love.

Love is a corpse
painted with roses.
A carnival mask
hiding a predator’s grin.
It tears open the trusting,
devours the hopeful,
and strings their remains
like trophies on its wall.
A serpent’s charm,
a trap disguised
as tenderness.
Fuck love.

Love is loneliness
rolled in glitter.
A madman’s feast—
rot beneath chocolate,
vermin beneath sweetness.
You swallow it
to keep the illusion alive,
gag on it
because you fear rejection.
Love is a lie
whispered while you bleed.
Fuck love.

There is no happy ending,
only the death of another
version of you.
You are sculpted
into their impossible ideal
until your reflection
becomes a ghost.
Your voice—
sacrificed.
Your truth—
dismissed.
Your soul—
sold for crumbs.
Fuck love.

Love is torture—
a barbed-wire cradle.
Honey dripping from knives.
You run,
you fail,
you return for more poison
because addiction
is stronger than reason.
Your pain is their pride.
Your suffering their entertainment.
Fuck love.

And when you kneel,
naked and shivering,
offering what is left
of your ruined heart—
when you whisper the truth
of why you stay—
they laugh,
cold and amused,
and spit the truth
in your face:
“Fuck love.”