I am whittling knives from my bones, and offering them to you as gifts.
I am not surprised when my knives are turned against me
I am taking it by the blade and begging you to be gentle and
I am unsurprised when I start to bleed. you can take my blood, but I'll want something in return. a kiss would do.
I am hungry for love so I won't mind if it's killing me.
I am waiting for the knives to carve my flesh into something you might love someday.
I am hoping this love will make me beautiful.
but this isn't beautiful, is it? all this red just makes me look like a massacre.
no art is quite so red as I am now.
look me in the eyes and tell me that you love me. you can't, can you?
I have spent so much time creeping in the shadows that I've forgotten
what the light looks like. you have too, I think.
I do not want to be loved by you, I do not want to be told that I am beautiful, I want
to reinvent myself as something more powerful than that. destruction, perhaps, divinity maybe, or both.
hold your tongue. I'll offer you another knife but you'll have to take it by the blade this time.
do not tell me that you love me before you've seen me in the light.
I am not beautiful but I am something.
breathtaking and earth-shattering, at best and at worst.
my body is a map made of scars you've given me, but I gave you the knife
so it's my fault we ended up here, too.
I don't want my bones back, or my blood, but I'll take my knives. I'm more godly this way.
