You still visit me in my sleep,
even when his arms are around me.
You still take your knives and carve
tiny hearts of out my flesh,
then hang them in front of his face.

I love you but not in the way
that you hope for, or **** for, or destroy for.
Your lovers’ minds are not a battlefield -
stop waging war on innocent ground and
allow yourself to be healed.

Stop! I love him because he kisses my scars
and rubs them with ointment, always ensuring
there’s no new ones being made in the process.
He doesn’t drive me to create more, because
he is healed and knows my mind is not a battlefield.

If you won’t admit defeat,
then repeat after me:
I cannot be healed, I cannot be healed, I cannot be healed.