Then it grows. It turns into actions. Malice. Not to others but to yourself.
The lines start small, Almost to faint to notice.
Then , they grow. They begin to deepen, In hopes of drowning out the pain. The pain of everyday life.
They hurt, But not as much as your heart does.
It starts small, As a thought. But as it grows, As it struggles to keep up with your flooding emotions. It begins to strangle you. The thoughts begin to hurt. They scream; Hear us Hear us , but what if We don’t want to hear them.
The thoughts that start those lines. The thoughts that starve us. The thoughts that deprive us of living a fufilled life.
Love is the illustration of pain. Blood is the demonstration of passion. Your Scream for help is the euphony of our intimacy. Your ****** is the proclamation and aesthetic synthesis of our **** and compassion. I'd **** for you. And I love you sufficient to **** you. Because I love you in a way that no one has ever loved anyone. I reminisce the day, When I enhanced myself by painting your blood on my nails just like nail polish. And smearing your Scarlet shaded blood on my lips like a lipstick. It tasted like honey and your lips, It reminds me of our first kiss. The more you hate me the more I love you. Your hate and my love has a hitch. You can despise me but can't abandon me. And I don't want you to feel the same, That's what makes our love different. Love me or despise me, doesn't matter Your soul is mine. I am your life but the complication is that You are suicidal.
The screaming The shouts My heart’s bruising The sword-like words Like a scolded little kid I run to the corner Cover my ears Pretend I don’t hear At the cats i stare “Can they feel my pain”, i wonder.