I have you in my hands, over my skin.
Dripping red, metallic like my heart,
Trickling slowly down an icy exterior,
Sticky, warm, filled with your soul.
Talk to me.
It’s metallic taste lingers on my lips,
Your eyes, glassy, bore into my own,
Accusing me, hating me, how could you?
Don’t do that. You were supposed to love me.
My shaking hand caresses your cheek,
Soft skin, sharp nails, bitter hate,
Tiny crescents left on your plump skin,
Like tiny moons, beautiful in the night.
Don’t hate me.
I liked it when you were here, breathing,
But you had to ruined that, did you?
We were fine, happy, carefree. Perfect!
Why wasn’t I enough? Why did you hate me?