ignore me. turn your back from my lingering stares and scribble no sorry on desperate love letters.
leave me. my name is not poetic enough to whisper against lips, my fingers weren't made to run through a lover's hair.
come here, leave me hanging. tie strings stretching miles long from your fingertips to the entire being of my soul.
control me. smash plates against peeling wallpaper and tell me the corners of each walls were made to cry against and the back of my hands are made for callouses.
destroy me.
come here, leave me hanging. place calculated butterfly kisses on my cheek and tell me i'm the best thing that's ever happened to your existence while you press a gun into my head.
YOU ARE READING
FLAWED MOTION (a writing collection)
Poetry"i suppose i love this life, in spite of my clenched fist." © xelena clarisse, 2015 highest: #104 in poetry
