I don’t love you,
(because) love is a dead word.
It has been beaten, trivialized, degraded, and dragged through mud.
Love is a poet’s whore.
And her patrons come one after the other, streaming through the brothel
They offer supplication,
But love will not give them the meaning they desire,
She has been used up.
Too many times crumpled and discarded, like a paper cup.