I want to know what it is
that draws me to the floor of the shower
when the water is burning my flesh a stale red,
much like the color of your lips.
my skin may cry, but my bones lock,
holding me under the water.
it pounds like it once did
against my cracked window,
trying to burn away the words
you carved into my frame.
my wrists starve to see the white tile floor turn
dark.
crimson.
red.
while my eyes pull closed,
in an attempt to stay shut forever.
and the water dripping in it's slow rhythm,
from my shaking, aching lips
is the only thing
keeping me sane.



I want to know what it is
that draws me to the cigarettes
that tear me into pieces.
my lungs feed on their heavy smoke,
and my porcelain skin seems to
fade.
dull.
crack.
the glowing between my fingertips
reminds me of the way it once
danced and swayed
between your strong, rough hands.
but still, it seemed almost as if
it were a part of you.
(which I would never be)
my lips, and my cigarette, both agree
they'd be much happier
pressed to your waiting mouth.



I want to know what it is
that draws me to you
when every inch of me, inside and out,
is a reminder of how I've been hurt before.
how the words that have been thrown at me
now wrap up my organs like vines.
thorned chains pulling tighter
as I fall harder for you.
the way you speak,
fragile.
soft.
strong.
the look in your eyes,
and the whispers of the thoughts
you are so reluctant to let me hear.
the words that you speak so delicately
as if they will shatter, or I will shatter,
before your very eyes.