Flinch

love and relationships, passion

I want you to bruise me, just so I know you’re really there,

Your offending mouth, venomous voice, automatic like a burning gun.

I hate you to death, but you’re still my choice,

Bites and scratches, every surface, we’re all creeps and don’t deserve to live.

Prayers can’t save, neither the passion in the eyes of young lovers, or the

Smoldering hatred of one year too long together.

Kisses turn poison, leaving their traces through scar tissue

And the bright red mark of true love. Lips pressed together,

We feed moths into the flame of life, spreading disease,

Hoping to plague the rest so as not to feel so utterly alone.