Real Love
Written By: Millie - @inbetweendayze
Feeble and restless, responsible for a broken heart and confess
your real and undying love for a woman you just met
Painting false narratives that live up in your airy head.
Pink hair and some semblance of a diagnosis this woman is not your saviour
Nor the mother damning your pitiful misbehaviour
She just wants to live
Selfless and downtrodden she’s given all that’s left to give.
A ‘wholesome’ dependence on someone who drags you down into depths of her eternal gloom
Sprinting breathlessly to her tomb before you beat her to her own womb
Begging you to cut that string so that the balloon may float above six feet under
The storm is on the horizon, she is the lightning and you are the thunder.
John Lennon’s ballads gave you hope for ‘real love’ before the plights of Cynthia and Julian
‘Real love’ in spiteful quotations so the youth realise it is a pathetic fallacy and not in the sense in which I speak to the moon but in the sense in which I speak to you. It is a fallacy. And it is pathetic! But I digress, it is ‘real love’.
‘Real love’ is labour under a clever pseudonym and beneath the hand of an ill-tempered boy, as ‘real love’ is not really love in a woman you intend to destroy.
‘Real love’ is a body to hold and to kiss and to have
though her hands are ice-cold.
The girl, a coin-operated consolation machine to patch up your wounds and mend your woes
yet she herself is rusted, squealing joints drowning in her throes and hanging by a meagre thread,
though you invest your machine oil in your car instead? Now this is ‘real love’.
Overbearing and undercaring you interlock fingers with the sweaty palms and dirty nails
But it is your will and testament that prevails
mingling with your shot at a new life in a new woman, in a new place in a new world, though you remain unchanged.
I’ll simmer beneath the smile before they label me a madwoman.
In time she will not bend to your pursuit of aesthetic rebellion, when she relearns to use the words so heartlessly ripped from her tattooed throat, though you claim it is with a heavy heart.
The girl, everything yet nothing and reduced to the bittersweet role of ‘your scapegoat’.
God forbid she use her words and be branded a hellion
Flame-red locks fall at her shoulders and below your standards
When she opens her rouge-lined lips, speaks a word of truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, then your story is riddled with holes and rips. But hey, as long as she maintains her couth.
This is ‘real love’.
Her shame and silence is learned in her malleable youth, but will she tarnish her reputation in pursuit of the unbroken truth?
Struggle to speak nonetheless, but struggle to speak with success over your whines and complaints.
Bending over backwards as a contortionist of words, aesthetic to the eyes and pretty to the ears though her limbs crack and groan within her confines. This is ‘real love’.
Yes, you spin that record and spit out the same lies you always have, skipping and skipping like an ancient vinyl you refuse to discard, yet the real value lies only in my face card?
Your mother’s favourite son would never have to endure such criticism,
But hey, as long as I exhibit my altruism! This is ‘real love’.
Formerly a champion of applauded independence, a standing ovation under warm stage lights
And now a victim of your condescendence, confined to the edge of said stage in a never-ending pantomime she performs for you until she collapses of exhaustion
And no, you may not have a second portion, you are watching your figure
but you’re strong, you’re resilient. You’re hot. Go figure!
Bearer of weaponised incompetence, you have perfected the ancient and arguably masculine art of insufferability. How do you hold onto something you should have left in your adolescence?
Tell me, is the worst trait a woman can have visibility? Infertility?
No. It’s real, real love.
