the nights I don't tell my lover about.
are the nights where,
I slice my own flesh.
some are deeper than others.
I watch the color drain out of these small openings,
I had just created seconds ago,
a type of satisfaction changing through my body,
my veins.
the nights I do this to my skin,
I never own up to,
for being scared of the words you'd say.
part of me thinks you wouldn't really give a fuck,
over the dark scars I had marked the night before,
hours ago.
I know it's such a foolish thing to ever consider,
yet to me it's not,
knowing my overthinking tends to cover it up.
but,
I'm scared if I show you the marks upon my skin,
you'll think it was you who had done something to me,
but love,
it's not you, love.
it's my own cruel thoughts that take over my actions.
I'm scared if I show you the marks upon my skin,
you'll leave me,
knowing you can find a better lover than me,
a lover who doesn't have severe depression,
a lover who doesn't overthink every little thing.
out of all the things,
if I showed you my scars,
you may look me in the eyes,
tell me you do love me,
placing kisses upon my lips,
my cheeks,
and every little scar.
my lover may save me from ever thinking I need to mark my flesh.
he may,
cuddle with my for hours on end,
refusing to let me leave,
for the fear of ever making me feel these thoughts again.
maybe I should tell my lover about these nights...
YOU ARE READING
my lover poets
Romancethe thoughts about love. Simplicity form yet addictive to consume your mind over. Love isn't always perfect. (I know I'm not a perfect writer in poetry, but I thought it would be fun to write out some thoughts I have, and things I've learned int...
