i cried him a storm of rose petals, the soft leaves blinding him as the thorns press into his sides, he can't see them, he can't feel them, he can't see that i am a violent battlefield, a fallen angel disguised as a soldier, my love is a pile of grenades and the pins are already pulled, and the whole thing will blow up in his face long before he has the chance to pick another rose.

our love is soft on the outside, the color of ballet slippers and the taste of buttercream frosting but when you get past the surface you see our love is hard, solid. we are just a couple of slightly damaged people who haven't felt the sun on their faces in so **** long; they crave the validation, they crave the love hidden between the other's lips, their desire surpasses just that-- it is no longer a want, a desire. our love is a need.

he has used a needle and thread to stitch his name into the blood running through my very body, filled my lungs with only his voice so i often forget how to breathe when he is not with me. i know i have become too reliant, too dependent on his velvet words but i can't stop now, can't back out, and the rose petals are falling from my eyes.
-a.c.b