My thoughts always smell of blood and promises - mental blades to slice everything into neat piles, always cutting, sorting, removing the fat.
I’m smart. Smarter than you. Yet, you are the one who sees the fatigue before I do. Who sees that the razors have gone astray and cut too much. You see it when my heart pounds too quick, and my veins turn to stripped wire.
It’s always tea, you offer. An old joke from our salad days.
You never take a goddamn thing seriously! Thinking to make me laugh only gets you my anger… but I fuck you by the window so I can feel the sun upon my skin, and all is right again when our bodies lie love-slick and used.
Too serious, you say. And I kiss you.
Even on a good day, it hurts you how my soul reaches for the darkness in you, that I won’t be happy until I coax it out to play - to smell-touch-taste… fuck it. But you let me dig anyhow and smile through the pain.
This is heartache, sweetheart, and I will drown you in it just to get my lips wet.
Oh you hush me and cluck at my bleakness, and you finally get your smile. You always do.
And you get to live another day with me warm in your arms, the tangle of trust in our limbs. The blades slip back into place as you close my eyes with your kiss.
You heal me - I cut you. Such a beautiful thing.
It’s a poisonous dance we do, you and I, but oh how we do it so well.