I want to feel inside your soft spots, where you've been bruised, because love goes far deeper than peach fuzz.
Were those bruises made by mouth,
or fist? You tense up when I hold you, it's your pit instinct, you grew up that way, we came from the same soil, washed away too early, roots exposed.
We are scared of the intimacy that comes with being naked, when we are in your bed and fully clothed, wondering who put us here. Our skin is touching.
I've waited for this feeling, my peach fuzz is no armour,
and I let you bruise me, a soft spot-you kissed me, it went deeper than skin.
I wasn't ripe enough for you, and you've left me to rot.