time is not your friend.
you figured this end of recovery would taste less like blood,
feel less like the wrong side of the bed.
bitter sweet doesnt even begin to describe your love language,
your bite is as sweet as your kiss.
youve become so fed up with waking up in the morning, you forget that was once what you prayed for.
who is your God?
is it the one you hand the butchers knife,
and lie your head so sweetly on the chopping block for?
or is it the one you turn from and flee,
when love becomes too familiar.