The Voodoo Doll Of Love

The Voodoo Doll Of Love

I never meant to stitch your name into mine,

or thread my breath through the shape of your sigh.

This heart learned the pattern before I agreed,

each beat a needle, steady and blind.

They say love is gentle, a softening thing,

yet mine has pins where prayers should rest.

Every time you ache, I feel the echo,

a quiet bruise blooming in my chest.

Your smile tugs somewhere under my skin,

a careful pull I cannot resist.

When you turn away, the air goes thin,

as if longing has learned how to twist.

I am not cursed, I chose this spell,

this strange devotion I cannot undo.

To care this deeply is its own magic,

a binding stronger than wanting to be free.

If you are hurt, I break in places unseen,

if you are whole, I breathe again.

Your joy presses warmth into my ribs,

your sorrow teaches me how to bend.

No dark altar, no whispered names,

just love with its hands inside my seams.

It shapes me daily, pulls me close,

makes a home of things that once were me.

So keep the doll, or let it burn,

I am already written in your flame.

Love has never asked for permission,

it simply learns your shape, and stays.