"I write, therefore, I am."what I see what I feel what I write who I am 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.