She told me "when you love you give your all" and I don't know if that is good or bad. You see eventually I will have given every piece of me away but I'm hoping she's the last one and I hope I can say forever like I truly mean it, but that's the thing I never know when someone's is being sincere. She said "you live in the moment but your slowly falling to pieces. You can't live on the hope that it will be okay you have to know it will be"

"Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil. "
Loving her was a soft suicide.

A bottle of pills and a warm bath,
candles lit around your head like a glowing halo.

Loving her was a steady shock.

A fork in an outlet and a buzzing in your spine.
Loving her was the agony of a quick snap of a bone.
The long ride to the emergency room,
listening to music you never liked.
Especially not now.

Watching her leave was almost worse.

Almost better.

It was the swift pain of a steel toed boot in the
soft part of your stomach.
The gasp of the crowd in the busy bar.
The realization no one was going to step in and help.

Yes, loving her was surely relentless, inevitable pain.

So you turned into a person who kissed feet and
fell to their knees.
Bandaged yourself up and then asked to bleed a little more.
And the truth is..

You almost liked it.

If there's different types of love,
Then there can definitely be different types of trust

Last night I saw him after two weeks.
He was 9 shots deep,
patron making his breath hot and
heavy on my face when he hugged me hello.

I was cracking open a second beer
while he cut into the chicken breast.

He grabbed my arm and
placed it on the cutting board.
He pressed the knife to my flesh while I took a swig of beer.
He pulled the knife through my skin,
blood bubbling as he said:

"ah. you almost flinched."

He then took me into his mouth,
my blood making his lips and teeth momentarily stained ruby.

I held his head to my cheek and
kissed his neck while he crouched to my height.

I guess this was too tender a moment for him
because he pinned me against the wall and
pulled my hair so hard my feet ceased to touch the floor.

He kissed me with desire,
he kissed me in a way that almost made me flinch.

He kissed me but it didn't feel like a kiss.
He cut me and it felt like love.

I am the leftover fragments of a violent dream you once had.
You can't seem to remember enough to know the details
but even still-
it leaves you haunted.

I met one of my soulmates once.
He died in Maine, my favorite place.
I don't go there anymore.

I don't think about it anymore, really.
Except for days like today,
when there are leaves in the air and
I'm stuck staring at the water.

Remembering how he put my life in limbo,
how he awakened a part of me,
who he made me become via domino effect.

The way his hair ruffled up in the salty air,
looking back to see his slightly reddened cheeks mirroring my own.
Him chasing me on the jetty,
staring out into the waves glinting like gold on the crest.
The sand and the sun and the movement.

He was a word I don't use.
I hide it deep inside of me.
I hide the loving adoration,
I hide the fact that I too,
had some of ******'s charm lurking in me.
Waiting for the right person to bring it out.

He stunned me.

He made me a *****, a wanton *****.
And I loved him for it.

My hair still curling at the edges,
like a young child's does.
I was a young child.
And he, a man much older,
a man daring and dashing and perverted
enough to make me lose my innocence.
To make me love.

He killed himself three years after knowing me.
He did this to himself.
We both know that, even now.

I still think about his touch, his mouth, his laughter.
It has been seven years since I have known it,
since I have felt him,
and I still am left with a burning need.

This is what a ******* did to me.
He may have hung himself that day in Maine,
but he did not **** the secret or the desire.

I have felt the toxicity of touch, and I seek it every day.