He threw me against the wall
and swore he loved me,
and the only way
he could make sure I loved him too
was through bruises on my skin.
My heart was spilling,
but it was more blood than love:
more black and blue than pink.

Then I met someone else,
and he ran his fingers through my hair,
down my arm, over the curve of my hip,
he kissed my forehead,
and followed the path to my neck
where he whispered sweet nothings:
but he was gone with sun rise.

I remember his hands as bandages
after the fight -but they only cover so much.

And I remember his cigarette breath
-I hate cigarettes, but I wanted to smoke him so bad,
and when he was gone I felt like I had been addicted all along.

The bandages are gone,
it no longer smells like cigarettes,
and I'm no longer left with bruises
-so why do I feel so lost?
Isn't this what I want?

Is care synonymous to hurt?

Why do all who claim to care
leave me with marks to bear?

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.