Sometimes we hand love as willingly,
As hostages with Stockholm syndrome,
As if it was just a foregone conclusion.
“Here, take my heart,” you’ll say.
“Look how delicately it beats.”
You hope they cradle it, treat it with care.
“Please be careful,” you’ll say.
“It’s yours now. And Goddamn it, I need to trust you.”
Love can be irresponsible.
“Please don’t make me regret this.”