I am November eleventh.
Muted. Grey. Orange and red.
Chaos reckoning the silence.
I’m just some kind of disaster.
Not waiting to happen,
But currently happening.
Traces of my manic heart
Are left in skin and bones.
I am not optimistic, goodness,
Nor an easy conversationalist.
Reserved, overwhelmed, emotional.
I’m not what they call desirable,
I have too many faults.
I use to call it passion.

Why is your brokenness so beautiful,
So enticing, alluring, inviting?
Why do I only want to fix you,
To tell you to keep on fighting?
How unfortunate, how desolate,
That my love holds no cure;
For you are the “beginning of terror,
Which we are still just able to endure”.