Those nights where I can't remember you as a whole,
Are the ones where I lose my role.
The curtain goes up, But I am out of caracter.
Not a big crowd, but one mere spectator.
A wicked smirk playing on his lips,
His ripped jeans hanging low on his hips.
I notice his eyes and how they shine so bright.
Oh and that white T-shirt, covering his chest, oh so tight.
I lost my lines among the empty chairs and dirty glares.
This is no longer a silly game of truth and the same old dares.
The spotlight burns my skin,
But not as bad as the desire within.
I stand frozen in my spot,
When you come closer and remind me of a lot.
All those late night calls,
all those screams caught by walls.
But when your hands brush my skin
They make my hate for you wear thin.
After all I was the one who didn't care,
I was the one who had a love affair.
With your rough hands,
And how their touch could make my body dance.
I can't blame you for being mad,
And suspecting I had another lad.
But you can't blame me for having a love affair with your hands,
Because from the moment you touched me, I stood no chance.
YOU ARE READING
It's a journal
Poetry''Instead of blades, I use pens, but it is still my blood covering the pages.'' Comment or like if I have helped or inspired you. Also if you are having trouble or you are feeling down, Feel free to talk to me. I might not be able to take the pain...
