the lover destroyed
by: like firing
everyone needs a place. it shouldn't be inside of someone else.
— richard siken —
Here's how we live:
It's midnight, and I sneak into your room. I reach for your long golden hair and tug at it until you're awake. Then I whisper into your ear that it's time, that I'm here, that I love you.
Then you grab my hand and get out of bed in a long black nightdress and I pretend like I'm not watching you. You can tell I am, you can tell from the way my fingers clench around yours and—
(we are sixteen. we are doing the wrong thing. we don't care.)
I relax. Give you my best smile and kiss your cheek. Then we slide onto the streets and we decide to run away into the sunrise.
It's midnight, so we have time. Your lashes flutter, you want to sleep. I let you. You fall into this void during the witching hour. I hold your shoulders and contemplate.
(these nights are for drunken hazes and how i'd like to kill you.)
You have a fortune falling out of your laugh and is it worth it? I'm starting to think that I'd like to hear you scream—
Whether it's my name, whether it's bloody murder. Ink flows through my veins. Grows to the surface. Criss-cross my arms, pale skin, dark thoughts. There's a knife in my back pocket. They ask why I don't use a pistol, this is more fun. You're more fun.
(they say love is torture, nobody knows that better than you.)
Here's how you live:
— you don't.