Were that you a blow to the wind,
I would’ve wiped your smears away from my dark heart many months ago.
That your mistakes stained your hands like blood,
The reasoning behind your eyes is cross-stitched, you read my messages and then fold the pages of the diary back.
I would’ve tossed your empty literature into the fire.
I would’ve buried the embers underneath the sea.
I have no place for you inside me.
It is with a heavy bag I carry my dry bones, the marrow stuffed with mistakes like you,
Meeting you, knowing you,
Learning to be friends with you.
Were that you a final kiss,
I would’ve sponged away your glossy pout away from my lips.
I would not have bought your book,
I would not have invested into your emotions, whatever spirals you “out of control”,
You wear your flesh insane,
But your insides are measured, calculated and cool.
I have seen the darkness in your irises, the lies that drip like pitch off your tongue,
They are reality with a twist, a cocktail of your deceit.
Were that you a stranger,
I might never have made you a friend at all.