a black and navy sea of stars.

a match blanketed by shreds of trees.

a cylinder of white.

the scent of warm summer days . .

when everything feels like a smile.

glazed ceramic of yellow.

the taste of salt . .

sad, pure, and promising.

don't touch it

but we persist.

don't play with fire

they've always told us.

but we insist it isn't playing.

limbs, soft with innocent skin . .

warm blood flowing beneath.

it isn't the person who's deserving of hurt . .

but the person who's deserving of being seen & understood.

and who would stop you?

no one.
wouldn't he? . . .
. . .hurting is no longer concerning. . .
maybe he wants you to hurt . . .

know that this is far from being something to guilt you..
i just need you to see that i hurt too when i hurt you..

how many times?

one

two

three

four

more?

not too close

but just enough we resist . . .