I didn't mean for this to happen:

for you to make my name a habit, a safe word
when you go overboard &
no one's there to trace your scars &
kiss the memories left on your wrists.

I didn't mean to become routine,
comfortable in your mouth,
your Sunday morning
after the substances weren't enough to **** the demons.

They're branded on your eyelids,
so you never want to sleep, unless it's
with me; but I always give in
to your desperate pleas.

I just want to replace
the bottle in your hand
the lines
the bathroom sinks
the fog
those things behind the mirror the doctor said would help you
& fix you.

But you love being broken more than you love me.