poetry

Is That Called Love?

You’re turning
Black and white to colour,
Ripping through shreds of paper
To find the truth.
You won’t find it now
It was burned long ago
But the ashes still exist in my chest
If you’d like to rip that open too
And see for yourself.
Go ahead,
Crack each of my ribs
And leave me bare.
I dare you,
Wear me like a glove.
We both know
I’m going to let you.

Is this called love?

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