Exhausted

A foreign sickness seizes my heart, An affliction nameless, cruel in its grip. My mind, a battleground of questions, All devoid of answers, Yet each one gnaws at my soul like a rabid dog. Your presence is a slow death, A specter that mocks my wretchedness. Your words—how they slither, how they burn! Your laughter—an executioner’s blade, Carving away at the last remnants of my being. And yet, like a wretch seeking poison, I return. Is it not absurd?—this miserable devotion? Knowing well the rose is armed with thorns, Yet still clutching it, bleeding, As if pain were my only proof of life.