"I write, therefore, I am."who I am what I see what I feel what I write ask me
Throwing myself into the nearest fire and then crying about
being so badly burnt so I beat myself up for the next two months
for not just warming up my hands.
Living in pretense, so I stock up on band-aids and
painkillers for the rude awakening that is yet to come.
Loving behind closed doors,
slipping love notes through the cat flap.
Falling for boys who smell like riot,
boys who vandalize the walls of their lovers’ hearts with
spray-paint promises—calling it revolutionary.
Mistaking destruction for passion and calling it love,
the kind that feels like being stabbed from the inside.
The kind that leaves demolition in its wake.
The kind that leaves cigarette burns instead of love marks.
The kind that leaves.
10 Metaphors Explaining Why I Can No Longer Love You
1. You bleach your teeth with venom to look pleasing while you kill. My lips are eating away at themselves. These are the chemicals of your poison reacting with mine.
2. You set your lungs on fire, when your thoughts strain your limbs, to burn breaths out of your life. You press your mouth on mine, begging for my oxygen. My lungs will not return the breaths you’ve burnt. I do not have to breathe for anyone but myself.
3. There are pieces of our ghosts in the spaces between us. The ghosts in your dark rooms have found their way into mine.
4. You look for a brighter light but find a darker tunnel. To you, everything seems out of reach. It’s not your hands that will get you there.
5. I stutter and you shame my tongue for slipping on itself. You fail to realize the irony of your discomfort as my fingers shake.
6. I scan my body and see yours. You’ve disposed me of myself. I do not exist.
7. I was generous enough to share the privacy of my own thoughts. You said poetry is just another excuse for people to stop making sense and not have to feel bad about it. I still regard you as art.
8. I fuck for the speechlessness. You fuck for the screams.
9. There is a blue birth mark on your shoulder and red vines down the backs of your thighs. Needles prodded blue skulls into your back and there is a picture of the scabbing underneath the red dress in your trunk. Dresses come in many different colours. Mine are black.
10. Where are you? Alessia Di Cesare, 10 Metaphors Explaining Why I Can No Longer Love You (via featherumbrellas)