You held my heart in a box so small.

Painting me in all the wrong colours.

Spread against the walls.

Your brush erasing the details, you chiselled your way out, never in.


You keep holding on and you squeeze.

You can’t even say my name.

And I won’t look you in the eye.

You defame me, reduce me to a projection of yours.


Weighing words out of context on a golden balance.

You retriever.

With your gloves on, keeping your distance.

Hitting where it hurts.


Your brain is wired by judgement.

Your idealism is only for a selected few.

You love a handful, not the world.

Yes, and then, there’s love.


Shouldn’t I be able to see it too?

It looks so pale, exhausted, ready to fight.

Your way of handling it.

I cannot trust it.


You use it so scarcely.

Love is not salt.

Love is an action.

Love is not just a word in a footnote.

Nor is it a mere title.

No, love is every word on every page,

It doesn’t even need to be spelled out.


“Solitude” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)


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