After your hands have caved my skin in, I still bare you no ill intent.
After your words have clouded my brain and my vision, I still bare you no ill intent.
After your heart has grown vines and twisted around my own, I still bare you no ill intent.
After you have given me the momentary love I deserve and allowed it to leave me as I left, I still bare you no ill intent.
After you have ridden on the horse of my thoughts and poisoned my blood with your name, I still bare you no ill intent.
But now that your silence is deafeningly suffocating, and your hands are not buried deep within the curves of my hips, and your heart's vines have been clipped to dull ends of rotting greenery, and your lips do not speak the words of pleasure and love anymore,
the ill intent chokes me and spits on my tongue; it turns my bones to Ash and my blood to lead. It turns the horse of my thoughts to a hell hound that is hungry for a piece of your flesh.
my ill intent is my refuge.
