I swear I was something before you,
but now I am only yours.
A doll, a specter, a love-drunk martyr—
reverent, delirious, waiting for you to carve your name into my ribs.
You tell me I’m your favorite, and I believe it,
because if I don’t, my sanity will split at the seams.
Even a worm will turn, and even I can break,
but I’d rather shatter in your hands than be left to rot alone.
The world is a festering corpse, and we have blood on our hands,
but when you touch my face, I am absolved.
Sanctified. Redeemed.
If this is damnation, I welcome it.
It’s easier to look away from the bullet that will inevitably find me.
I have butterflies, but they are sickly, struggling,
their wings serrated, slicing through my gut.
Dumb & in love. Dying & in love.
I love you to death—
and I would love you even beyond it.
