The boy whose heart you broke
would beat the shit out of me
if he saw the way I touch you.
You feel my affection,
the love that I infused,
and he would see right through me.
There's something beautiful
and wild
about the way I'd let it happen.
He would push me and I'd fall to the ground,
laughing,
waiting for the next blow,
practically begging for it.
Would you cry?
The blood I would shed would be ours,
not his.
He'd see right past it,
because I have this feeling that
he was more like me than you.
He would feel something else
in the way I snake my arm around your waist
when you take a seat on my lap
in front of our friends.
To me it's ownership,
he would notice that,
and to you it's nice.
To me it's vile,
and though you're clueless and in denial,
he agrees.
Seven.
You don't know what I've done,
and you don't know what's been done to me.
I'm trying to slowly reprogram you,
not against your will,
but to coax you into the dark,
holding something behind my back.
A knife?
You'd like that too much.
Worse.
An intention,
Some jealousy,
Twisted desire.
Seven.
I love you, you poor thing.
I'm never going to let you out of my arms.
I promise, someday,
you'll have to break them.
YOU ARE READING
Everything left to complain about (stopped) (go read my other poem book)
PoesiaPoems and strings of words that don't qualify as poems, from all four years of high school until the summer after freshman year of college. My recent works and anything I continue to write can be found in my new poem book, "Open your hands and say s...
