Because my love is not delicate like hers. I know. I am not standing elevated, flowers cascading down my back, beautiful and still, poised for love at first sight. I am tired, covered in mud, screaming, invested in the chase. I wear my need on my skinned knees and I will not tell you lies; no goddess, no invention am I. To be still like her would be to allow your peace of mind, to give you what you’ve taken. And you must hurt like me to understand. I will only smile to cut your fists with my broken teeth. I will make you feel. And can’t you feel it? Claws wrapped around your lungs and needles scraping your skin, searching for a vein. Pain is the flame on my tongue, the only translation. So beat me, beat me, you hopeless romantic, and decorate the clearing. Leave me flat on my back, and I will cherish the stars.
Because I know you could never love me more than the poison in your eyes. But, God, can I pretend.
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