I tell myself that I smother you,
that I would let you call me next time.

Oh, Love.

It feels like there’s a blade to my throat,
and you, The Cool One, don’t notice.
You make sudden movements,
sounds and whispers,
and I feel the sting.
You say you’ll call me back
and I wait for hours,
sometimes whole nights
unsatisfied, and
all those times
the knife sinks a little deeper into my skin.
I look in the mirror
and don’t recognize the desperation.
I want to yell at you, tell you that
my blood’s on your hands
and your fingers and your toes and your lips and
even on that part between your stomach and privates that I love so much.
It’s all over you and I’m dying a slow, painful death,
moaning and screaming as you twist
the jagged edge
with careless words and heartless humor,
and as I sink backwards
to where I’ve been a hundred times,
you tell me you’ll talk to me soon
and I just nod,
a crimson telephone held tight
to my chest.

The desperation of anticipation... I've been there.

Very nicely written!

Thank you Thrace & isaac

(((myanimalc))) Beautiful

((((Baby ))))

Powerful write