Day in and day out,
I can feel the wrath of your lingering skin
grasping me whole and
one day, your grip might just
be more than a ****** choke.
You write lines about me,
like a broken romance.
When the day comes,
where I will no longer
feel the ache of
self-inflicted wounds like
fire on my veins,
will be the day my
poetry becomes less romantic.

You write me like romantic poetry,
in the words you say too.
Because I will never stop
romanticizing the
most gut-wrenching things.

To the boy who
tore me in half with one
of the most romantic sayings of time
"Tell me you don't love me"
I will wish for the day
you will remember it,
as it shall lay in the ground with you
the day you decide
you don't love me.

The day you will ponder
about ideas fixated on me,
will be the only time
I'd let you lick the shameful
words you recited to me, like my
poetry,
off my lips like you really
need me.

To feel burns, on my skin,
along with traces of fingertips,
engraved into my fragile skin,
every time you write words
dedicated to me, so
romantically,
is such a shame.

To the boy who
made me such a romantic,
hopelessly and tragically,
*******.