1. your lips taste like spun sugar and your wrists
hold him down like razor blades.
he is bending into you, he is breaking because of you,
he is telling you not to stop.
if you were drunk, you would mistake this as love.
2. here is the jaded world, banging on your door at seven a.m.
you’ve been the same person ever since freshman year,
gravitating towards the people who don’t care
whether you break them or take them.
you’re a slut who lost it in high school,
but at least you’re not the prude who didn’t.
1. he sits you down at the kitchen table
and tells you over red wine that some people
are made for bleeding and you take a sip,
and tell him he has the perfect complexion for bruises.
make a list of what you know of love.
fill it with whatever clichés
you’ve thought of when he rolls away from you
in the middle of the night, like an empty confessional
the morning after a one night stand.
end it with a question mark.
ask him to do the same and he will
write down his last three girlfriends, all with hair
as red as blood. you think they probably have killer smiles.
2. here is what you didn’t try to tell him, the mantra
written inside your skull in red wine and sugar.
look at the fingerprint horizon, look at your beat up guitar,
look at the moons look at the star look at the broken car
on the side of the road.
what are you still doing here?
leave before i don’t want to break you.
1. “you’re supposed to love me,” he says wryly when
he leaves for the fourth time. you give him a once over
and look at all the places he’s broken where you’ve
never touched and smile. “don’t ask me to do the impossible.”
2. your history professor asks you what you know of love
and you write an essay about your last three boyfriends
and end it in a trail of ellipses.
okay, but this is a different kind of love poem. the 'you' is the one doing the hurting instead of being hurt. that's a nice change. and it's a dysfunctional relationship because neither party really loves the other one but maybe the 'he' does a little bit because he can't help it, even if he knows it's bad for him. there's kind of two things going on here. 1 is like the actual actions and the relationship happening. 2 is like a character study of 'you' that relies heavily on why the 'you' is in this relationship and what the 'you' is thinking about it.
No, but seriously, I'm starting to think of myself as one trick pony. I used to write poems about suicide or depression or madness, and now it's all about love. I never knew being happy would cause me to be such a crap writer.
Bot, but seriously, relationships aren't as unhappy as I make them sound, I promise.