There’s this new scar down the back of your hand.
“New” implying that once in the recent past it was absent from your skin.
And you didn’t really mean for it to be there, this faint red line,
Sitting too close to the lone freckle that exists on the back of your palm like Polaris.
Because now it’s a constant reminder of how you got it.
And scars do not fade easily from your skin.

Streaky little bits of sky splattering through the window.
It is open so that the outside can leak its way in,
Covering the stale unchangedness.
You were once here,
This warm glow of skin that made the spilled drops of sunlight more beautiful.
And now you’re not here, or there, or anywhere.
It’s all just so much ******* uglier now.

You’re so unhappy.
And ******* but doesn’t it make you special.
Afterall no one else is unhappy.
Your pain at night is the warmest thing you are sure you could hope to feel.
It gives you your driver’s license,
And you drive right the **** over anything that throws into question what you do,
Your tire marks steadily worming beneath my skin.
The secondhand rhapsodious misery you expel into the air crawls into the threads of my clothing and lingers.
Your justify your uninspired cruelty as being something I need to hear,
Point to pain as truth to fuel your fallacies.
That’s not what truth is.
You wound because you can,
Too afraid or angry or selfish to apologise and so you spoon out excuses,
Each more common than colds.
Like chunky lemon milk,
We linger past our expiration.

Him: What exactly is the point of that?

Her: The point is that you’ve got something inside you that has to be let out, something that would die otherwise,
and you would die too if it was lost.

You loved her less, for whatever reason—
Your brilliant redemption, your glowing new start—
And it made you realise
You were just the same.
That decay you thought she’d burned away
Had just been waiting in the wings
And in the moment you loved her less,
Her illusive light fading,
Your soul began to rot again.

I hate hentais.
I don’t mean to victim blame
Japanimated schoolgirls,
But why can’t any of them ever end
With the girl killing the **** out of her ******?
Instead she just
Loses herself,
His mind broken *** slave
And that is the glorious end.
**** that.
****, pussycat; faster, faster
Bite his **** off.
How can there be any
Happy Endings
in such *******?

What would things look like
if I could press
rewind?
Take myself back to that moment
and make sure it never
happened?
What would it be like,
to not be
naive?
To know then,
that you had nothing to do
with me;
Were just drunk on
yourself?
To push you away
and be
certain?
Before feelings complicated the mix?
What would it be like
to have never
loved you?
To like myself
better again,
To be sure
—once more—
that I would never be so
stupid,
What would it be like if I’d never met you?