You were the feather, and I was the paw.
Who could have ever, been the strength that I saw.

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.

Turn up the silence and block out the sun,
Alone in my room, a bottle and a gun.
It goes click twice, I'll see another day,
Tears start to fall, can't carry on this way.

Your fortress, a structure spectacular
built with blood and memories
of those who made you loathe yourself.

I was in awe of it for awhile
and then later, bored
with your need to be holed up
with historical demons
and antique canons ready for blasting
new suitors, me.

I know you love a sword fight as well
so come down swashbuckler
and show me what you’ve got.
I have only an open heart, sorry
a useless weapon I know
to bring to any game of love.

I’m going to love you anyway, so you can relax with your cliche game playing.

Anyway, does a game exist
when the other team decides to stop playing?
That’s me. I forfeit
until you surrender
your need for that tedious control.

All your defences seem a little silly
in the face of such truth
yes, I just want to love you.

You say “Can you love this?”
as you pull off your mask
like  a modern day Scaramouche.

“Easy”, I say.
I love the flaw in all things,
the corner stone of a thing’s greatest strength.


No need to chase summits
to convince yourself that the world is yours
Love your weakness
and let it be your light out
of well trodden swamp lands.

When you acquiesce to the ordinary,
magic happens.
Don’t gather souvenirs to say who you are
where you have been
or what you’ve achieved

It’s just a declaration of fear.


When you hold onto nothing,
you have everything.

We don't write the way adults do.
Not in limericks,
perfect lines,
perfect rhymes.
We don't sign our names
but let our initials be our recognition.
We don't write about all the lovely things.
We write with raw emotion.
Translating our sorrows into syllables,
putting our pain on paper,
hardships and hopes of death.
The limits of our society
we see through fresh eyes
that have endured tribulations
far too young.
perfection isn't our aim so
we don't let the rules confine us
because our poetry is free.
//P.T.