To be in love

To be in love

sucks more than

love itself.

They both suck, actually.

Nothing sucks more

than the awkward sensation

of flapping butterfly wings

inside your stomach.

There you are,

a nice decent fellow

and the next thing you know

you find yourself smiling

like an idiot at the sight

of a devilish lady.

To be in love

hurts more than an open

surgery

without anesthesia

or a hundred broken bones.

To be in love

is a fucking disaster,

World War II reloaded

or just the simple equation:

(Hiroshima + Nagasaki)²

To be in love

is craving for attention

like an ego maniac

lost in the ego trip of

his own desires.

To be in love

is the blind gesture

of counting the petals

without realizing

the irreversible damage

you do to a flower.

To be in love

is forgetting to eat and

thus devoiding yourself of

protein and filling your heart

with maple syrup instead.

Worse than being in love

is falling in love,

that split second that led to

the retarded decision of giving

attention to the chimera

who will devour

your soul for the rest

of your life.