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Our love is toxic. Like breathing the noxious fumes of drying paint. Like drinking turpentine, And feeling it burn your throat like liquid fire. Our love is hateful. We yell with spiteful criticisms and scream With all the sound and fury of A hundred dying suns. Our love is battle. Weapons of choice are the dagger-like glare And the piercing, always fatal spear of defamation That hooks under the skin like a barb. Our love is a struggle. Neither of us can admit our wrong, only the other’s. We grapple with one another in a game of miserable revenge, Striving to best the other, to prove: “I am the one that is right.” Ou