My hands is small,
but I have long nails, sharp as a knife. I have sharp teeths, greased with blood of all the people I've loved. I do not want to admit it, that love to me is violence and I wish to bleed for the person I've loved. Who am I, if not bleeding and dying in the name of love? Who am I if I'm not violently assaulted in all sorts of way, what am I if not loved in cold floors and warm lies. What will I become if they don't ruin me?
My nails craved to open their skin, I want them to hurt me violently until I'm bruised and begging and in return I'll scratch their face gently because I crave to hold them gently. Stab me on my stomach and tell me you love me, kiss me as blood streams out of my mouth. Bite my tongue and hurt me more, make me cry, break me, throw me away, and want me again.
I do not want to admit it, but love to me, deep inside is all violence. Make me beg you to stay. Because I'll know it's love when they don't love me. Is it love when my hands aren't bleeding? I'll bleed for you, I'll cut my skin for you, you don't have to cry— I'll cry for you. Pluck out all my teeth, tame me, hit me with a pipe, lie to me. Love is violence, and I don't know how to love any other way.
YOU ARE READING
I have found myself a home
Poetry🧸⃤ In the Kaleidoscope of wanting to be home, I have found myself a home in places I have been. The shade of colors found under streetlights, the thrills of joy in the shrieking of laughters by the side road. The love woven under fabricated happine...
