You told us stories about your trip to Hell like it was Disneyland.
Like it was just a California spring break trip, but I could see the matte fear in your once galaxy shining eyes.
They reflected the flames, and the horror, and worst of all the blood that dripped down your own pale arms.
You told us about the boys who kissed you as if you were you were all they had. You said that's how they made you feel.
You talked about one boy in particular, but you refused to say his name.
I could tell it would be poison coming off your lips as you spoke.
You said that he touched you like you were made of glass and gave you drinks of burning fire.
You said you felt safe, that he made butterflies fly out of your scars, but your voice became quiet.
As you became quieter and quieter, your story about Hell dimming out, you looked at me and I saw the real story in your burning eyes.
He never touched you like glass.
He broke you over and over, and that's why open wounds covered old ones.
There were no butterflies.
The drink of fire taught you to be pushed around and to be opened like a little kid's birthday present, but this was no birthday present.
Before your eyes had left mine, your shaking finger went to your lips.
Your story of Hell would forever be my secret.

Can't you tell that my mind is just messier and messier with thoughts of you? And I crave the blade and I crave the smoke but most of all I crave your touch. I fear you crave her touch again. I fear you the recklessness she poured into you. I fear I'll lose you to her. I've already lost myself to these thoughts.

It's been a month since your fragile voice made contact with my alert ears and it almost burns as I admit I miss the way you spoke.
I could never meet your eyes-do I even remember the color of them?
And every glance at you feels like you're drawing blood from my veins when you're not even making contact with me.
Change, change, CHANGE.
It all seems so relevant, or maybe irrelevant and I just want you to be happy but not hearing your voice talking to me feels like a million needle points and I shouldn't let you get to me.
It's been a month.
Have you ****** around more after me before the word "change" hit your tongue?
Or was I just another nothing of a female body to fuel your addiction that actually made you realize that change is all you got?
Seventeen years doesn't get you far, now does it.
But karma, that's going to get you.
You're nothing, 'cause you told us we were something (what a lie!) and it's going to loop back around.
But I miss your fragile voice making contact with my alert ears.

I'd rather be kissed hard than anything else.
Grabbed, pushed, pulled, tugged, bitten at.
Pain doesn't drive me insane, does it?
That sense of realization, that spark of hurt I feel,
I know I'm alive.
When I'm treated rough,
I know I'm alive.
I'm addicted to that feeling,
even if pain inflicted from others is what gets me there.

I would want him to push me against a wall,
hard enough that my skin digs into the harshness of it
as his mouth sloppily finds mine.

He can tear the air from my lungs with
every move he makes,
making it impossible for me
to catch my breath
like I'm trying to breath as
a fire's going on,
the flames licking at my skin
with a red hot tongue.

He can scratch at my skin,
pulling me closer,
as if being near will fill
the empty void,
the endless cloud of self hatred
buried deep in the lust
that we both feel.  

He can bite and **** at
my neck, my mouth, my chest,
desperately trying to taste every bit
of me like a wolf on a hunt

He can toss me and pull me
and treat me like I'm nothing while
whispering "you're everything"
off his fire tongue as I'm just
savouring my addiction of feeling alive.

My addiction of pain.
My addiction of rough.

I want to write a

love letter to

you,

but I can’t

because

I don’t know you

yet.


I don’t know

if you’ll even

be able to

tolerate

the little things

I do

everyday.


How I

shake

my

hands

when anxiety

fills my body

over the stupid things.


Or how I

chew

the

straws

on every drink

I ever get.


Or how even

my

hands

are

shy

hiding under

sweater sleeves.


Maybe how

my

laugh

echoes

in a store

wherever we

go.


Will you be

able to

tolerate

such silly

little things,

my lover?


I want to write

you a

love letter,

but I don’t

even know

you yet.

You meant something to me.
Your lips tasted like nicotine, and your body made mine feel
like a burning building.
I wanted to scream at you and slap the
sense into you and leave you a thousand times over,
but I also wanted to *******, make love to you like we were the last
two people on earth and it was the only way to survive.
I wanted to claw and scratch at your skin for your attention,
but I also wanted you to shield your eyes because I was an
eclipse and baby, you would go blind.
I needed you like ******* air in my lungs,
while I craved you like the burn of ***** down my throat.
You scarred and tore me apart,
but you meant something to me.