I was so worried,
so ******* scared
because I opened myself up to you,
felt how it burned to take you in,
indulged in how good it was
to be naked, torn open and vulnerable—
at risk,
going ahead despite the little voice in my head
that told me the entire time
"this could ruin your life".
I was awestruck,
how at odds it was to find pleasure in terror.

Well I had contingency plans in place,
pills and alcohol and bruises
just in case you exploded inside me
and ripped me apart.
Even if you did, I knew you'd still be there
to fix the problems
just to cause them all over again,
bursting and mending, erupting and clearing up the mess
over and over and over;
maybe that's why I went ahead and did it.

By God, I've never felt so sick to my stomach
than I did when you looked me in the eyes
and I realised I couldn't stop,
couldn't run away like I usually would.
And yet I wasn't hurting,
wasn't splitting apart at the seams—****
wasn't that scary.
5 AM and standing over the sink,
staring into my own tired eyes
and observing the abuse left by insomnia's hands:
sunken shadows bruising sleepless eyelids.
I smiled because, darling,
never before has it felt so good to bleed.