A bruised wrist like a hand around my throat / can't breathe but the air leaves my nose in a / plume of smoke that rises from the burning home we built our future in / shattered glass leaving
a fractured reflection / and we see ourselves as the broken people we are / everything we own is scattered around the living room floor / and we are a mess of blue words
and purple avoidances / that leave scars no one will ever know.
And trust is such a delicate poet / criticized by those who don't understand / your words are the bible on which I base my self - esteem / and the weight of the verses are too much for
me / because all your words are painted in black / and you are not my savior / and the marks on my skin will heal / but your poems of anger / tattooed on my brain / will eventually fade
away / as time likes to steal away the things that matter the most to us / a thief of a clock tower's bell which no longer tolls / because the days mingle together / into weeks and months of
a deconstructed timeline / that no longer exists in this universe for us.
My skin is the matchbox / on which your fingers strike a match / and I am flammable / catching fire like what used to fill your eyes whenever you looked at me / but you're quick to douse
the flames / because fire is dangerous / and fire is passion that's hard to control / that passion-fire spreads and no longer means what it used to / because other people are the match
that strikes your skin / and we're all just burning for the heat that comforts us the most.
Poison injected into my veins / toxicity in which I am filled with disdain for the ghosts that plague our past / numb from their harsh reimaginings and vicious intent / as they fill
our hearts with doubt and insecurities / but at least I'm not alone / as they hug me while I sleep / and fill my dreams with movies scenes / in which I am not the star / but merely
a passenger traveling through / dark marshes that try to sink the boat they created for me / and trap me in black tar that fills my lungs / and my mind / and fight I must against
the bony arms that reach for my flailing arms / and try to drag me down.
Intense intent / lingers long after it's welcome / visions of the future proved to be unreliable / but I suppose by now I should know better / but God,
it's hard to wash the evidence off the bathroom floor / shedding my skin and leaving it there / they say your second skin makes you harder, tougher / but all I feel is exposed.
Vulnerable seconds in which I let myself cry / and burn my raw skin with their salt / my cheeks swollen with warmth and swallowed words / but I sat for too long / and I grew angry like /
the fire you tried to put out / and realized that you'll never love me more than yourself / and your talented fingers / which play girls like drums / soft and slow and romantic / until
the thunderous climax / in which you abuse the power you have and / you beat a little too hard.