Disguise the pallet of your porcelain skin which lights up the darkness of my space.
She stands in a dark outside, watching and wondering why it is that she will never be good enough to stand with you.
You would never allow a comfortable situation unless her tights were ripped to her loins and her lips were bitter red.
In absolute silence you find discomfort and all she wants is to be loved.
There are dreams which awaken her with real-time sickness, it bulges in her throat and fills her lungs with discourse and deliberate bile.
You are not who you pretend to pretend to be because she saw you years ago in your driveway with braces-
You were better then.
When skin becomes tight around her bones she looks to find the beautiful ones-the ones who claim that beauty is non-existent, and yet hold it in their hands so much that creases form in their palms.
"You are beautiful, but I am not in love with you.
I'm sorry that you're so lonely, but I can't be held in your company. You don't deserve to know my love, because I don't give it freely."
All she wanted was to be in love, or to have someone love her so much that it pained them to be away from her-something she'd felt for many men, but had never received in return.
All she wanted was to be wanted in some fragmented way.
She wanted to be a butterfly on the wall in a love story, but that seemed so far.
He loved her best friend, he loved ladies of the night too much, he loved another so dearly, he liked to play with her emotions, he didn't know she existed, and he was too scared to look her way.
All she wanted was to be seen and to plug the bleeding wounds with her thumb before they sucked her inside of themselves.
Warped, warm, wrecked.
Broken bones cracked more gracefully than she did.
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