What happened  
to slow-dancing  
in rain-slicked streets,  
to trembling fingers  
folding paper hearts  
sealed in wax-red promise?

Now,
we’re offered
chains dressed as charm,
red flags stitched into roses,
gaslight glows mistaken
for moonlight.

They call it love—
but it bruises.
It breaks.
It bleeds.

We settle
for breadcrumb kisses,
for apologies soaked
in venom and velvet.
We wear wounds
like wedding rings,
and call it passion.

What happened
to poetry—
to consent,
to slowness,
to souls peeling back
each other’s layers
like pomegranate fruit—
bitter, sweet, divine?

Now they want
power,
ownership,
ego-fed feasts
where one devours
and the other withers.

We’ve forgotten
how to write love
without trauma
as punctuation.

I don’t want
a story
where I’m shattered
then thanked
for still being beautiful
in pieces.

Give me
gentle.
Give me
growth.
Give me
a partner,
not a puppeteer.

And stop calling
toxicity
a twisted kind
of romance.
It’s not.
It never was.