I understood cutting.

I could take a sharp object-
say, a rusty box-cutter-
and delve into the soft flesh of my arm,
releasing blood-
at least my body is more than skin deep.

Love is pain, sorrow
it is guilt, paranoia.
Love is desperation,
and impossible expectations.

Your threats
are as empty
as your mind.
Your convictions
are as weak
as my tolerance has become.