What Is Love But a wound that never heals?

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Does Love ever stop Bleeding?


What is love but the sharpest of blades,  

a promise dressed in the finest charades?  

It cuts you clean, it digs so deep,  

a wound you cradle but never keep.  

Does it laugh as it carves through your tender bone,  

leaving you to bleed out, utterly alone?  


What is love but a cruel masquerade,  

a beautiful lie that time can't evade?  

Is it the weight of a touch that turned ghost,  

or the echo of words that haunt the most?  

Does it hide in the corners of shattered trust,  

turning hearts to ruins, and dreams to dust?  


What is love when it whispers and lies,  

when it’s born in the gaze but dies in the eyes?  

Does it curl in the hollow of forgotten prayers,  

or linger in rooms where no one dares?  

Is it the memory of a hand once near,  

now, a phantom that drips like poison in your ear?  


What is love when it chose to walk away,  

when it doesn’t explain, it doesn’t stay?  

Does it sink like a stone in the pit of your chest,  

or burn like a fire that sees no rest?  

Is it the silence that grows like a storm,  

a rage that keeps you cold, not warm?  


What is love when it teaches to hurt,  

when it grinds you down, drags your face in the dirt?  

Does it wear the face of an old regret,  

or a smile that you wish you could forget?  

Is it the taste of names you can’t unlearn,  

each syllable a dagger, each vowel a burn?  


What is love but a mirror that shatters,  

a reflection that mocks while your heart splatters?  

Does it cradle your ribs in a deathly embrace,  

or leave you gasping in its empty space?  

Is it the weight of nights where you begged the sky,  

or mornings where you woke just to ask, “Why?”  


What is love but a thief in disguise,  

robbing the very colors from your skies?  

Does it leave with the sun, take the rain,  

turn joy into relics, pleasure to pain?  

Is it the scream you choke on while you smile,  

the slow decay that aches for miles?  


What is love when it no longer stays,  

when it turns all your light into shades of gray?  

Is it the bruise you press to feel alive,  

or the drowning you fight to survive?  

Does it hum in the silence after a storm,  

a hymn of grief in its softest form?  


What is love but the weight of a name,  

etched in a language of heartbreak and flame?  

You wear it like a charm, though it makes you fall,  

and you’d still kneel, still crawl, still give it all.  

For love is a god that devours its own,  

leaving you worshiping on an empty throne.  


And yet, you’ll beg, won’t you? You’ll pray.  

You’ll sell your soul just to feel it stay.  

For love is a wound that never closes,  

a field of thorns that once grew roses.  

It kills you slow, it pulls you apart,  

but you’ll still call it home, deep in your heart.  



-S.A.L.T

                                                     

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