By: Monica Lin

I am a romantic.
A hopeless, stupid, romantic.
Consuming media like it is
my second heartbeat;
A piggyback heart.
An octopus. Eight arms devouring romance in the form of hearts;
tearing the tissues apart to slurp the blood all up.
Noodle soup, a warm homely meal.

Romantics are set up for failure.
Romantics will lie to themselves.
Romantics are in the mirror, combing their hair and mimicking my actions.
Two pearls of longing stare back at mine.
Wide pupils and a misty gaze.

I could fall in love with a tree if I tried.
I could fall in love with love if I tried.
I could fall in love with you if I tried
and I do not even know you. You are the reader.
I could even fall in love with the reader.

It is pathetic.
I am not quite ready for the experiences of life
but I search, the same way one searches for answers.
I have kilometres and yards of years left to explore, but I am
relentlessly seeking that teenage romance.
Call me a scientist looking for love;
I believe I am looking for the cure for death.

I have loved before; I know it seems as if
I have not.
Each one ends the same.
Them clutching their heart in pain;
me licking my paws with self-hate.

I am addicted
to blood.
Literally and figuratively.
The blood that pours out of my faults,
and the blood that pours out of your heart.
How can I never get enough? How is it possible that
I continue to destruct?

Yum, yum! It’s dinner time!
Time to break another heart!
I am a rabbit eating its own children;
I kill my bloodline.
How lovely. How romantic.
This way, mutations will not be passed down.
This way, I will not hurt anyone else.

I am starting to believe I am incapable of love.
Famously stuck on the idea of love;
never the person.
I dream of midnight picnics, aquarium dates and long museum walks.
Whether these dreams are nightmares I cannot tell.
I love the idea of feeling wanted;
am I able to want them back?

Forget romantics, forget them;
forget love and their lies!
When am I ever content?
When will I look at myself and think,
I do not need others’ love;
for I am love itself?
When will I stop pursuing something in front of my
misty gaze?

Until then, I will be incapable.
Incapable of controlling my destruction,
incapable of stopping my ever-growing hunger,
incapable of loving myself without another;
incapable of love.