Love is, 

replacing the soothing touch of water 

with the burn of swirling red. 

Love is, 

broken glass on the ground, 

not being able to differentiate red from red.

Love is, 

freely seeking comfort in another’s bed, 

knowing your own will be empty anyway. 

 

Love is, 

conceiving a child, 

in the hopes it will turn your lives around. 

Love is, 

heated arguments above the top of the crib, 

the product of your union lays in. 

Love is, 

hating the sight of your child, 

for a being with this specific set of features 

should never have existed at all. 

 

Love is, 

watching your little one locked behind bars, 

‘domestic violence’ the accusation. 

Love is, 

seeing the bruises on their spouse’s skin, 

not wanting to believe, but instantly believing. 

Love is, 

hearing your spouse whisper hushed apologies, 

gently caressing their black and blue bruising. 

Your own knuckles bloody, and reddened skin. 

 

Love is, 

realising you don't know what love is, 

only what it is not. 

Love is,  

you think,

standing on the edge of a ledge, 

ridding the world of your way of love. 

Violently and red, even in death.