Comments 3


I only really write
when my heart is forcibly strewn out on some kitchen floor
rolled over, pinned down, tarnished, cut open, slashed,
gore gore gore
creates my best writing
and she knew that
so she accused me of only loving her
so my ink could flow more easily
and maybe the masochist living inside of me
could regretfully agree
while the logical side says
what the fuck would i want pain for
but you held out knives and let me walk into them
then blamed me for being distracted by your smile
as the blood on your hands made artwork on my chest
and i was naive, yes
but it had been so long since i believed in magic
and you looked so beautiful saying my name
but you knew what you were doing
because you’re the plank i’d walk out on
the depth i’d dive into
thinking i was saving you
when you were on some shore all along
so don’t blame me for loving you
blame yourself for using another human
to fix some part of yourself that she broke
because I am not some tool for mending
and I am worth more than a empty smile that
spits cheap words that rhyme with I love you.


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