i watched my mother crack her ribs open to pour out her heart to someone whos love language was violence.
his hands too rough to piece her tender skin back together again.
she pulled my sleeve down over my heart,
and pointed to her bleeding one,
and told me that this is where love will get you.
now i wonder if i'll ever let a boy hold my hand,
with out feeling like my fingers are breaking,
feeling like i can hear my heart screaming at me
i wonder if words of love will ever taste like anything other than poison sliding idly down my throat,
a drawn out pain that settles in the bottom of your stomach
and stirs every time you smile back at him.
i wonder if i'll always be too scared to let myself be pulled apart,
trust me, these inner workings are not beautiful
i get so lonely hiding within myself,
but better to be lonely and whole than lonely and left with half of a heart