I’m desiring your company, I’m desiring the ability to stroke the vessels which carry your blood and pluck from them all wounds and harmful mannerisms. I want to press my lips to your flesh and suck out your pain like marrow from the bone. On my eyes are the memory of you curled on my bed undressed. Hands to head, I ran my fingers through your hair and cried. Everything is coming apart, tiny skeins of skin, water salt running down to wet your face. If I could see you as glass, look through your flesh like water, I could do it. If I could taste your heartache like colour. This is a strange little solo, drama of the saddest sort, my mouth pressing out breath after breath that I would give to you if only I could convince you to take it.
I want to hold your ruby pulse in my hand and feel it flutter like a caged bird and take the thorn from its paw. A want to scrawl a map of creation on every inch of your body, use the holiness of truth to protect you from nature’s most subtle fury.
Then I stumble again, the block that kills me, makes me hide and quiver and die inside.
I can’t tell if you’re lying, you’re so good at not telling me anything. I cannot claim that your love is not important, that it does not drive me to getting up some mornings, but every badly written word stabs me to my quick. Indiscretion is a hateful gift. It lets me know that you’re hiding still behind convictions that I’m not allowed to see. You can’t take this away from me. It’s mine now, a gift you gave to unwittingly, like your devotion.
Now my heart is being broken too. I can’t do this anymore. My soul machine is spreading too thin. The skin’s going to break and let everything in.
Spikes, darling, fucking spikes of pain.