Traces of my lipstick-stained kisses on the back of your hand—on mine, the sharp ends of a blade.
I'll kiss your lips with mine bloody, your knuckles while mine blue; beaten and bruised, i'll give you my last dying breath
Forevermore.
(when i'm not thinking about dying i think about you or dying, with you)
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts From A Book I'll Never Write
PoetryMy therapist told me i needed a healthier coping mechanism
