if love is blind, stab my eyes

Oh, all the glorious tragedies I've
seen today, all within ten minutes:
A guy holding a bouquet. An expected
box of European chocolates shaped
like a heart, naturally.  A stuffed
bear. A couple holding hands. A boy
kissing his girlfriend's soft cheek.
A girl carrying pink balloons. Oh.
I'm alone, naturally.  How awkward.

Eyelid umbrellas hold back rain,
torrents of gushy-mushy romance.
A metaphoric flood; stormclouds.
Walking from Point Envy to Point
Misery.

Facing down, arms crossed. Eyes
on the ground. Please, no optic
tidalwave leakage. What's this?
Stop: step on a blue candyheart.

Facing down, thank God.  Thank
God, not Cupid.  Not that dumb
St. Valentine. Not a cordiform
morsel of sugary conversations,
spreading one-liners older than
this holiday. Kiss Me. Miss me.
XOXO. Love Ya. Detour: stomp.
Saccharine aorta vs. my shoe heel
(not Achille's, but same difference)
What?  You want to know who won?
Are you kidding? You should know
me better than that. Tsk, tsk.

February is for Lovers.  Not me.
Unless you swap the V with an S
or N.  Losers and Loners.  As if I
need another reason to loathe an
angel with arrows.  Oh, look. He
shot me. He shot my target-heart
like Robin.  Hood, that is.  But
Batman's Robin suits me, too.  A
sidekick; one who gets kicked in
the side.  I'm nobody's wingman.
Cupid's the one with wings.  Me?
I can't fly.  Or swim.  Or love.
I fall. I drown. I melt. Puddles
of ocular dewdrops reflect guilt
or disgust or melancholy.

Today: rose petals, overwatered.
Alas, stupid Cupid's arrow hath
strucketh me.  He never misses.
I always miss.  This is sadism.

Maybe I should take archery lessons.