Valentine's Day

Cupid shoots his arrow
through the heart
it bleeds
slow
painful
death.

She walks along the shore,
picks up an oxeye daisy,
runs her hand at the back of her skirt,
straightening,
sits on a rock,
muttering,
"Il m'aime
un peu, *pluck*
beaucoup, *pluck*
passionnement, *pluck*
a la folie, *pluck*
pas du tout *pluck*
The dead flower, not even allowed to have its petals.

He approaches his love interest,
requests a kiss,
under the mistletoe,
a poisonous plant
that showers the gift
of nausea, diarrhea
and even death.

Romeo died.
Juliet died.
Heer died.
Ranjha died.
All those who love die.
And those who haven't,
are they truly in love?

And people continue to ask me,
why I dread Valentine's day?
And I continue to tell them,
will you attend your own funeral?