Of all the lies we’re fed
on which we gorge in our comfort-addicted world,
none is more insidious than the lie of romance,
the seductive but infantile notion
that somewhere there exists
someone to complement us in every way
someone who will make us complete.
this illusion keeps us
from ever being complete in and of ourselves,
and eventually encourages us
to despise our shortcomings, our flaws,
everything in which our humanity lies.
Our humanity, without which, of course,
we are nothing.