I am a martyr of love. I am the casualty of infatuation, stood on by the conquering beast: woman. Love is not a dream, which is widely speculated, bur rather a war for obtaining one. You feminine demons, you gore me. You pierce my heart and carry its torn, still-beating remnants to the fires of hell itself. I try to admire one of you, but you all as a stampede through me, leaving me behind: bloodied, pierced, torn, broken, and dead. Even after your attack, I crawl onto the dream of love, scraping my body across the jagged field. Your beasts catch onto my state, your eyes catch my creeping body, and you all decide to go full speed for another attack. Why?
You sadistic devils marvel at your grace and peacefulness, but behind your backs, concealed behind your draping torn wings, you hold your violent maces, armored in angry spikes. Which dangle the flesh of your past victims. With