I wonder how it would feel
If your perfect straight white teeth
Left bite marks across my thighs.

The space inbetween
Our ******
And your sleep
Is my favorite
Because I can pretend
That for once
You love me

I used to be pretty. My skin once pitted deep around my collarbones as if my skin were being pulled so taut, the bone nearly burst through it.
He said: “I’m not going to pretend there aren’t times when I won’t go down on you for the sheer fact that I fear being smothered by the cellulite of your thighs.”
He said if I wanted to be told I was pretty I should be with a man that says yes more than he says no.
He said: “I’m not for the weak of heart.”
But he overlooked the fact that it’s my ego that’s weak.
So I punch at my thighs until I’m certain they’ll bruise. And when I wake up in the morning with legs blotched purple - I will remember what stands in my way of reaching the realm of perfection.
He said: “Love means I don’t have to be careful with my words. Means I don’t have to withhold what I want to say.”

And I believed him.

The start of something reckless.
But recklessness comes in pairs.
So at least someone else would be here.

Sad because you feel too much
Or mad because you can't feel a thing.
Greener grass beckons,
And you wave to it longingly.

Love the rise,
Hate the fall.
Melodramatic monotone of monotony.
Perishable Plateau.
Whisk me away into infinity.

Dead on arrival.
Dead to the world.
Dead as a doornail.

Stuff me back inside my body
Like clothes in a suitcase.
I fit. I promise.

She liked the way his ***
Gave her shiny, webbed fingers.
She liked to hold them up to the light
And watch the way they glistened.
A translucent filth.
She identified with this.
She aspired to be this ***** thing
That could be had,
Without being seen.

Most people swallowed her up.
But she wanted to be spit out.

It's funny how things work out.
Even funnier how they don't.

There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say "*******" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.  
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.

There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.

Your arteries are like correlations
Possessing fragments of my brightest moments
Protruding right against your skin
And an abundance of my darkest thoughts
Crawling viciously through your lungs
Infecting your every breath
Just to fill the empty spaces
Between the blood that pulses through your veins
And the twisted bones that keep you straight

The craters in your wrists
Hold masquerades of celebratory pain
Where crisp and lifeless voices
Hum out screams of your trauma
Like meaningless smalltalk
As if you were a resemblance of the weather
Just another galactic disaster
While their idle hands of Devils play
Scrape knives along your spine
And feast formally from your flesh