Vials of Infatuation

Find all the medication you can,

paracetamol, ibuprofen, antibiotics,

Alka-Seltzer, ketonal, amitriptyline.

Never mix them, but keep experimenting

to see which one best meets your vast needs,

or rather, your limited ones,

reduced to basic physical desires

of a butcher eager to carve

into fresh meat.

Culture is irrelevant;

only visible aspects matter.

Internal bruises and wounds go unnoticed,

unfitting the prescribed narrative.

Forget spontaneous getaways;

our team will plan your sensory release,

scheduled by our associate ladies.

They'll act as your guides throughout Europe.

No room for independent thought.

Forget about it, it's a holiday!

Only what's spoken truly matters,

anything else

is damned and lost.

Forgotten

and spliced onto a new track,

replayed years later, steeped in shame.

Guilt trips over dangerous drinks in bars

will never make amends for it.

Escape won't help.

He'll find you no matter where you go.

Your loneliness will draw him near,

he'll always be there.

Or rather, he'll be there

in a constantly shifting state of mind.

None of these matters; all that counts

is that the man is in love,

even if the other party

is not.

Friendship won't help either.

He needs to have

this one woman in his bed.

If someone pushes something good too far,

it's no longer good.

Infatuation never truly ends;

it slithers

around the next corner, like a snake,

leaving no one untouched.