You could pin me down and slit my wrists in long thin lines, watch the blood pour from my veins in a waterfall — and I would still love you.
You could collapse me with your car, leave tire marks across my torso and hot red blood across the pavement — and I would still love you.
You could pry off my fingernails, leave puffy pink skin torn at the edges, frayed like paper through a shredder — and I would still love you.
You could pour acid down my throat. Slide razors down my stomach. Snap photos as my skin fades to white, as the maggots writhe and feed on my flesh.
You could murder me in cold blood and I would reappear as a ghost to be your alibi, to convince the jury of your innocence.
I would stand by you, even as you stand over my lifeless corpse.
Because nothing you do matters. There are no consequences. My love for you is immortal.
You could tie me to a set of train tracks, make tight knots against my wrists, and I would call it romantic.
You could fill my palms with pills, ask me to swallow the handful as a personal favor, to make your world lighter, and I would only ask for a cup of water and one last kiss.
You could take a rusted knife and dig it deep into my eyes, saliva dripping as you call me a bitchslutwhorecunt, and I’d still apologize. I’d still find a way to blame myself for the pain. I’d still let you play the victim, even as my world snaps to black and my heart’s beating slows.
I know how this sounds. I also know passion is synonymous with psychotic. That my love for you is toxic. Acidic. Eating away at my heart, my common sense, my soul itself.
You are going to be the reason for my demise.
You are going to slaughter me, slowly cover me with shovels of soft dirt, and when I’m finally buried beneath the earth, I’ll be exposed to a lifetime of listening to you fuck another girl on my grave.
And maybe when I’m a spirit in the sky, maybe when the distance between us becomes a reality, I’ll finally accept that I’m better off without you. That I’m better off going cold turkey, getting sober from your love, than sipping your bottle of poison.