what is the point of love? it's a cruel thing cut deep into us, poison that the lungs don't know, that sips at our limbs, and talks to the stars, us, dim, half stance and unable. we're playing to the same sacrifices, hiding our teeth and holding onto trick rooms. if you try to care for it, it will snap your neck. if you reduce it to war games, it will sew itself to every rotten calendar page.