He's not a man of many graces,
fewer teeth than tongues
but he won't say much with his lips.

He's at his strongest when you push,
but never from a kiss.
See,
he's stubborn in every way that doesn't matter,
in every principle that has no lesson.

I've bent the spines of fragile men
to see how far they'll go
before they break,
before they'll form into a crest
of his back that I can't dig from my head.
I've watched them fall in love with me
because I thought that maybe
one of them would empty me,
but they didn't.

He is an ill-mannered world,
the kind that breads creation.
A manifestation of passion and fear.
With eyes that dug twelve foot tunnels in my veins
and went there to die.

A man of simple needs,
plesantaries and shaky knees.
But he doesn't want to see you quiver,
*he only wants to know it.

I look into the mirror,
with the same eyes that looked
upon my younger self,
and decided to destroy her.

The same eyes that looked into mine,
and consequently forgot to say,
that they cared for so many years.

The same eyes that avoid all contact,
for weeks at a time,
yet meet with cowardice frequently.

My eyes have seen darkness,
my own destruction,
for years on years.

His eyes tell me that he began,
to lock his gun cabinet,
but knows that there is more ways,
to **** someone than bullets.

I guess his eyes speak more,
than he believes them to,
but you can't put a lock,
on the silence I must live in.