For the first time,
I don't want to shower him off my skin.
No need to scrub;
Your lips leaving delicate traces,
Your hands entangled in my hair,
No need to rinse
Sending shocks down my spine
Fingers brushing against skin
No need to wash the memories of;
Kissing shoulders and sternums
(whatever has been left exposed)
this doesnt make sense
the silence becomes the loudest in the middle of the night when safety is no longer an option.
it becomes the enemy when you're trying to sleep, push everything away to get some peace.
it's the thing that turns you from blue to red in the blink of an eye.
turning you into a whole new mechanism.
an animated, drooling, beast of rage.
you can try to claw your way out, but there's always something in the way of getting rid of the revolting, wet, anger that boils in the cavity of your sternum.
Depression is the side of my ribs aching
Anxiety is my sternum tapping and breaking
But caring about you is the buzzing in my head
Trying to sort out what is still alive
And what should be left for dead.
— The End —