You were freezing and i lit myself up to keep you warm and you woke up only to blame me for the smell of ashes. I heard somewhere that love is the most violent act and I hate that I perpetuate this belief with hurting myself the more i hold on to you.

You are rose in a field of daisies - you showed me how sharp your thorns can be and i held my hands out wide open to bleed for you. Your thorns digging into my flesh the more I  held on - the blood bathing both of us in this sanctimonious act of brutality I call love.

I was good to you.

Treated you as the last molecule of oxygen in an atmosphere i cannot breathe in. Sometimes I count my steps whenever I leave your side because every day that passes feels like a suffocating nightmare I cannot wake myself up from.

Is this what it is to love? To break yourself over and over again for a chance of building something together? Then I shall willingly cut myself off limb by limb. To get so enamored with the feeling - to build an entire temple to yourself and only leave the walls to pray.

I have a deep sense of hate towards myself and loving you hurts more than anything i have ever felt before and maybe. Just maybe - this is my way of punishing myself. To chase after what hurt most - You made me feel crazy for wanting to be loved as if it wasn’t the thing you promised to do.