on mine, after what should have been
the ultimate dealbreaker.

What is it about us?
I can only speak for myself;
I can't say no to your skin
My dearest, my darkest love.

Nobody but you has seen me as exposed,
as vulnerable.
Nobody has hurt me
like you have, with surgical precision and professional detachment.

I have my transgressions. I've wounded you as well.

Yet even with fresh blood on us,  we find a warm place to quietly lick our wounds together.

I do not write to create beautiful passages for others to enjoy,
Or for you,
Or because I feel the world needs  to hear what I have to say.
The world doesn't care about me.
I write not because I think I have a shred of talent.
Not  because I think I have profound wisdom to share.
I write about dogs and ****** and drinking and ******* and loving and dying and ******* and bleeding.

I write for the same reason I love you,
I have no choice.