A Spoken Word Poetry: Love is

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It was as solemn as the nights would stretch into morning. Intertwined with my fingers are yours- slowly yet continuously- letting ourselves collapse into sunrise, leading us into the cosmos that would soon consume us both.

It was painful. The hold was too painful to even bear. And darling, it’s supposed to be beautiful. Love is supposed to be beautiful; love is waiting; love is waiting for the bus stop at 11 pm. It does not count how terrifying darkness seeped into your skin; you still wait for it no matter what. Love is supposed to be beautiful. Instead, love is exhausting. Love is ripping all the vessels in my body apart, letting out all the secrets the world knew yet did not understand. They knew not of love. They knew nothing about love. 

It’s ironical, you see, for the girl who held my hand stitched all these wounds together and made dry all the painful words the boys from my past threw at me: “I’ll always love you.” They’re gone the next morning. 

What have we done, but love? 

She had long hair like mine. She always hugged me from behind. She would sometimes steal kisses from me. But that was who she was. She is.

Love is supposed to be beautiful. Love is. But not in this universe.

What have we done, but love? 


I wrote this while on a bus ride.

I recited this in front of my Speech Communication class, as an introduction for my persuasive speech about why homosexual love is greater than heterosexual love.

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