You try to buy my silence with kisses,
cramming our secrets into parted,
plump lips with a tongue that has grown so used to telling lies.
You never lie to anyone but me,
so I’ve started to see your dishonesty as something special.
The lie is that I am going to be okay.
I know it’s over.
Not us, of course,
but the fantasy of me being salvageable,
you lie and you lie and you lie,
because you believe in something you cannot see, with such faith that it frightens me,
and every now and again,
I imagine that you might be right,
and that maybe one day I will love myself the way that you have loved me.
It’s just a dream,
but such a sweet one.
As I collide with the coat rail,
hot hands across my soft skin,
you remark that I am darkly delightful,
delicious in all the right places,
and it becomes hard to hear anything but your shallow breath, swept up in a sigh as I collapse between your legs,
glancing up with bright eyes and my brave, deranged adoration.
I am so in love with you,
so stupidly in love that I have grown sick of it.
I make faces at myself in the mirror,
mocking the depths of my devotion from behind closed doors,
because, truth be told, stupidly is the only way that I can love.
I love you, like a lost little girl loves the fantasy of being found.
I hold you to my chest as I sleep,
guilting you with the pounding of my heart and how the rhythm spells out your name.
‘Til I’m with you,
then I’m with you there,
sweetly buried in your recently dyed hair.
These are all of our secrets.
The way you cover your greys.
The way I softly sing Sondheim as I watch you go to war with the world.
The way I lose my mind in the lucid but lurid way that I love you,
and the way that you love me too.
A ruthless, reckless romance about you as you kiss me,
as you kill me.
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