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She is not light.
She is not fragile.
She is gravity- unrelenting,
unavoidable.
Everything in me bends toward her,
whether I will it or not.
And yet I dream of ruin.
Not hers,
but mine,
delivered by her hands.
A strike, a mark,
something that cannot be confused with accident.
Bruises don’t lie.
Scars don’t evaporate.
Pain holds more permanence than any word could.
In pain there is certainty: she touched me, she claimed me,
I belonged.
Terror coils still.
What if my own body betrays me?
What if I,
clumsy, burning,
fracture what I love most?
My violence revolts.
My hands the enemy.
I fear them nearly as much
as I crave hers.
To collapse under her cruelty,
safer than to risk inflicting mine.
Better to be broken than to break.
Better to ache beneath her weight, than gamble with my own.
Begging to be wounded, terrified to wound.
Wanting the purity of pain,
the undeniability.
Wanting to be destroyed
only by her,
for destruction is still connection,
and indifference
leaves no mark.
Yehh...So you can totally tell I have no idea how 2 write fucking poetry rofl. I tried, kinda.
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