Fool’s Flame

They swear “This time’s real”—same script, different lips.
I scoff, but my pulse still trips. Idiot…
I know the drill: sweet talk, then the eclipse.
Still, I lean in. Let the burn eclipse the script.

Ah, love’s a junkie’s game. I hate the high—
the way their always melts to goodbye,
the way I lick the blade of maybe dry
and call it honey. Genius. Let’s retry.

We’re moths. We’re clichés. We’re trash-bin rhymes.
We crave the lie that this time, this time, this time—
will taste less like ash. Spoiler: It’s all grime
and glitter. Still, I let the toxins climb.

Love’s not a saint. It’s venom. It’s a crutch.
A bruise I press to feel alive that much.
So mock me. Call me fool. I’ll clutch the match,
let it singe. Call it hell. I’ll call it touch.

The heart’s a bore—addicted to the ache,
the thrill, the sore. Love’s joke. I’ll laugh, then take
each punchline, beg for more. Hate it… then break
back to the war. Again. What’s love? A fake.

No conflict—just flesh, just human core.
We love the fight, the flame, the wounds we wore.
Call it chaos. Call it cheap. I’ll slam the door,
then crawl back for the storm. Hate it. Crave more.