the little boy was five ...

the little boy was five when he knew to fear the stove. he tried to reach the counter, not aware of the flame on top. a lesson was learned in the form of a second degree burn on his palm, he never touched the stove again.

the little girl tugged on the dogs tail, laughing until it snapped back at her with teeth. she learned that even the softest creatures with the sweetest eyes sometimes still bite, she never played with dogs ever again.

but me, im not the little boy, im not the little girl. because every time you burn me i press my hand harder into the flame. every time you sink your teeth in, i might as well be asking for more. i wonder if this is love, my flesh to your fire. love shouldnt taste like this, it shouldnt taste like lies and broken promises, it shouldnt make me choke on my own tears, but still, here i am with my hand on the da*n stove. so tell me what kind of person does that make me. what kind of love is this, where pain and pleasure blur together. where i dont know if you want to hold me or hurt me. so i guess i lied. i think i might be just like that little girl who pulled the dogs tail. to naive to realise that the softest creatures, with the sweetest eyes, sometimes do bite. and now im left all bloody.