I don’t want to die for you to be left a widow.
  Not you.
  Not the fire in my room’s curtains,
  Not the scream in the sink,
  Not the glue that binds my lungs shut.

You, who wears my pulse like cologne.
You, who adores migraines.
You, who talks in-between my unfinished sentences.

The fever I despise yet love.
The sea I drink until I drown.
The taste of unfinished violence.
The vow carved into my spine.
The addiction I romanticize.
The hunger that signs my name when I can’t.
The dumb idea that razors its way through my thoughts.

  My wildness I swore I could hold,
  I’d rather die every day of my life,
  If it means I will die with you.