THC Meets Poetry

Trigger Warning

I am a trigger warning. The broken poet with the ragged lines drawn about his arms. Let's put poetry in place of verbal communication. Read my feelings of sorrow and despair as I cannot relay them to you myself, but with this pen in my hand, I can attempt a therapy session with you.

She can wash away the blood stains but the scars will always remain. My dearest darling, Trace your fingers over the patterns. The residue of your touch has me itching and breaking open wounds.

I want to taste her thoughts on my tongue. How savory these confessions of pain can be. I want to read her rehearsed obituary written on the tissue of her open cuts. When the kiss of death takes her from me, I will at least have gotten to know who hurt her. I will memorize every line.

Though I run from vulnerability I can't help but crumble to my knees when she looks at me like that. Such a genuine look of love and concern. There's compassion in her hands of rehabilitation. How nurturing she is to my monsters. She has befriended every voice in my head. Their conversations ring in my ears.

She likes the same music as me. The blaring of lyrics so raw on your taste buds. The kind of music that gets you in your feelings. Together we bathe in the melodies of our lost souls. The era we should've been born in. Baggy shirts and jeans make for better hugs and 80s values make for better stories. We go back to a time of simplicity. Though it may have been full of injustice, it carried a level of directness that we silently beg for today. Nobody predicted the future to be so complicated.

She loves the clothes I wear. So much admiration for my efforts in the way my shoes match my t shirt. I cower under her eyes, I won't let her see the crying boy living in my chest. I won't let her see my want for her careless whispers.

I yearn for the hitch of her breath when I tell her that I want her, but the way she accepts my affection has me feeling tipsy.
She makes me want to give up control. I want to be the helpless victim she protects. I wish for her to kneel to my level, turn her head ever so slightly and smile at me. She gives me that light breathy chuckle because she thinks my fears are cute. In comparison to her devils my demons are amusing in the way they can make a paper cut bleed so much. She finds it adorable how the sight of blood makes me cry because red is her favorite color. 

I'm addicted to the scars she leaves on my heart. Break my emotional walls more, I beg of her. Shatter every last piece of this ice cavern, because I would rather be a pile of glass shards ready to rebuild than a man living without her love and barely holding it together. I am a trigger warning, but she isn't fazed in the slightest, and proceeds to gracefully walk past the flashing signs.