Muhereza Rodgers Roger Poet Free verse

The Autopsy of Modern Love

We want attention, not understanding—
soft echoes of affection without the echo’s return.
We crave romance, not responsibility,
dancing in petals but fleeing the planting.

We want loyalty, not sacrifice,
to be chosen without the cost of choosing.
We confuse lust with love,
a fever for forever, burning out before morning.

We love the idea of you, not the reality of you,
adoring the dream, resenting the mirror.
We want the benefits, but not the efforts,
the wine of love without the crushing of grapes.

We expect perfection instead of growth,
forgetting that love is a garden—
it blossoms only through pruning.
We justify with words, not actions,
building bridges of talk over rivers we never cross.

We mistake control for care,
tying knots where freedom should be trust.
We prioritize ego over intimacy,
turning tenderness into a battlefield.

We demand love but do not give love,
promise forever but do not last seasons,
give up when it gets difficult,
forgetting that storms prove roots, not ruin them.

We do not heal before loving again,
so we repeat old cycles,
redecorating the same cage
and calling it a home.

But truth walks barefoot through our ruins—
gentle, unannounced, yet unignorable:
People do not fail at love;
they fail
at being consistent.

And that, my friend,
is how we bury what we were meant to build.

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