Press purple-blue-black bruises in the space below your shirt collar, with mouths and hands-- teeth and fingernails, and when you scream I know its more out of pleasure than pain, or maybe not, but I'm not quite sure that I care.
Maybe there's a reason that we fit, not like puzzle pieces, but like the mangled metal of a car crash. So wrapped around each other with the beauty of death, destruction, that we lost who we once were.
Somehow now you're me, and maybe I'm you, but I'll only stop fighting when we're both too broken to move.
FILL: SWAG 2016
poem, 15 lines
Press purple-blue-black bruises in the space below
your shirt collar, with mouths and hands-- teeth and fingernails,
and when you scream I know its more out of pleasure
than pain,
or maybe not,
but I'm not quite sure that I care.
Maybe there's a reason that we fit,
not like puzzle pieces, but like the
mangled metal of a car crash.
So wrapped around each other with the
beauty of death, destruction, that we lost who we once were.
Somehow now you're me,
and maybe I'm you,
but I'll only stop fighting when we're both too broken to move.
It's okay as long as you lose too.