She made me

prepare to be hated

though I am loved.

By no means will I breathe.

A clever hallucinogen,

she painted you all black

as secondhand smoke

but left the red for me.

She made me

a bloodbath, a heart,

and fire.

I am no fool;

she doubts my love

and believes in judgment

though I am the libra.

Her favorite description

is that of insanity.

She wants you all to know:

I am obsessed.

It may be the truth

in some places

more than others,

yet it is no flaw.

The difference is

I dream in color

and she fails to dream at all.

Yet somehow she poisons

a word, and I cannot

stand it anymore.

My rationale is:

when I wear white lace

will my sweetheart

care if I was

“obsessed?”