Achillies Heel

Love is a handsomely aging animal,

without anything so practical or rational.

Love is a gleaming double-edged sword,

with something valuable, hidden, and absurd.

Love cries out in mistaken misery,

each time that you look over at me.

I don't know if it's the way your hair falls,

that's got me climbing these emerald, green walls,

but it's something.

I don't want you to be my kryptonite,

and I don't wanna die in the flood of this spite.

I don't want you to be my Achillies heel,

I don't want you to be my pinnacle or ideal.

And despite all my pleading,

you know I'd come to you bleeding,

with my barricades ruptured,

and my morals adrift and unstructured.

You're my guilty pleasure,

my sin,

yet you know I'd do it all again.

Love is a slithering bitten orb,

waiting for me to come home and absorb it.

Love is a dangerous, forbidden trophy

waiting for the right nose to get perfectly rosy.

Love is a single trifling anecdote,

waiting to come and take me by the throat.

I don't wanna end up in a pile of my lamentation,

I can't keep going once you've reached the foundation,

but I will.

I don't want you to be my kryptonite,

and I don't wanna die alone in the flood of this spite.

I don't want you to be my Achillies heel,

I don't want you to be my pinnacle or ideal.

And despite all my pleading,

you know I'd come to you bleeding,

with my barricades ruptured,

my morals adrift and unstructured.

You're my guilty pleasure,

my sin,

yet you know I'd do it all again.

My bathtub filled to the brim with white wine,

you took my flowers and turned them to vine.

I don't wanna hear you apologize,

when I know you conspire to see my demise.

Standing on my bedroom floor,

where you called me a whore

and left stranded,

but if I can be candid

I wanna see your head on a spike

I don't want you to be my kryptonite,

and I don't wanna die in the flood of this spite.

I don't want you to be my Achillies heel,

I don't want you to be my pinnacle or ideal.

And despite all my pleading,

you know I'd come to you bleeding,

with my barricades ruptured,

and my morals adrift and unstructured.

You're my guilty pleasure,

my sin,

yet you know I'd do it all again.

I'd do it all again.