It was never butterflies with you,
something so delicate and fragile
could never have survived the
blistering existence of us.

And it was never conversations
filled with sweet tender utterances,
but words of fierce jealousy
that simultaneously sliced us apart
and flung us together.

It was never quiet walks with you
while our fingers intertwined,
for those stinging red scratches and
moments of ravaging pleasure
were always much preferred.

And it was never love with you,
neither of us would ever allow
something so innocent and pure
to creep its way into our mess.

but now I'm afraid i must admit,
i love every inch of our
blistering, jealous, ravaging
mess.