Every time you grab a hold of me, another part of me is cut away.
Any time I cut myself to be away from you, another part of me dies.
Crimson is the colour dying my dying hand. Drop, drop, drop.
Hurts less each time in a way. I become the numb you already are.
Touching me is a big sin to you, isn't it? Oh, you hate it.
I'm repulsive, your vision of what you could never desire.
Murderous thoughts fill my heart when you scream at me to stop doing it.
Even though it is what you do that makes me this weak. Or perhaps this strong.
Intimacy used to be how we spent our nights. Not this sour mood.
So what if I choose to mutilate myself? It's not as if you don't drive me to it.
James, I beg of you do NOT turn away from me. Please show me you can care. You
Used to be able to hold me, laugh
and smile with me over nothing. Everything.
Seems far too long ago
now. You are near me by orders only. Not romance. Lust.
Try to
talk to me about it instead of tossing me aside in disgust. I can't
help doing it.
My actions are nothing more than a habit I
cannot break. A vicious circle.
Or a ring of pleasure. It does
make me feel more alive though it kills off more of me.
Reap those
seeds you once sowed in me. When you loved everything about me.
Even
my insecurities. But you can never get over my night of weakness,
causing this.
A rift cannot be healed once created, no
matter how it appears so.
Garish scar tissue proves this. Part of
me wants you to tell me I make it look good.
Or at least not as
hideous as it makes me feel when I think about it.
No escape from
my mind of hate, you push me further away all the time now. No
options.
Yet I suddenly realise with childlike glee, there is one.
There is one.