BOYS

MURDER ME

This is a type of murder:
A girl with a heart that has been glued and stitched until there is no pulse; the only thing keeping her alive is the adrenaline she gets from him. She walks with a hint of debauchery, swinging her hips, rolling her eyes. She's all bite and no love now.
The boy is another murder— dancing hands grabbing her shoulders and bringing her in to feel the electricity of his lips. Slow down, feel him sink his body into yours. His body is a nuclear explosion and she's caught in the radiation.
And murder is a funny sort of thing.
It is not the girl slowly dying in bed, and eyes shut tight, waiting for the devil to take her away. She is not cowering away from the light— stomach empty from how much space she doesn't need.
Also he is not all glorious and godly; he is not stepping on air, climbing higher and higher until the oxygen he breathes came from her opened lips, he stole from her down on earth.
They are both murder— both in need of someone to hold until they can hold no longer. She needs someone not to kiss her forehead; no, she lusts for someone to take her thighs into his hands and feel the crevices in her stomach and leave marks on her collarbones. He needs someone that has no love for anything anymore; a girl that worships in the bed in the room of a stranger, and not as the church bell chimes.
I think she gave up long ago, believing in a God. Why believe when the prayers she sent to stitch up her heart, they were left unanswered? The only "God" she now knows is the one in bed with his hands sprawled across her messy limbs.

Murder is quite funny, indeed.