18/09/2016
With your hands around my throat,
You demand that I fit your mold,
Mixing hollow threats with endearing words,
You try to pass this off as love.
The phrase lingers in my head,
Too afraid to dance upon my tongue:
Darling, if this is love,
I think I'd rather die alone.
Sometimes, it's not the words that you say,
But the ones you do not.
You grow nervous when I leave,
Or at least that's what I thought.
You try to barter for my attention,
With material objects that will rot.
I simply laugh at this attempt,
Cringing as my heart twists in a knot.
I must have told you a million times:
My love cannot be bought.
I cannot be the centre of your torment
And the object of your affection.
You cannot be my darkest enemy
And the one to which I run home.
But I no longer fear you.
I am no longer bound by your chains.
So, believe me when I tell you:
Darling, if this is love,
I know I'd rather die alone.
YOU ARE READING
Charcoal Skies
Poetry❝IF I CANNOT WRITE OF MY WOES AND I CANNOT WRITE TO SAVE THE WORLD, THEN WHAT, DARE I ASK, IS THE POINT OF WRITING AT ALL?❞ A collection of thoughts, ramblings, and poems detailing the composite materials of a war-torn mind. Not recommended for thos...
