I remember you
telling me to wipe the
blood off my words.
You wanted a wanton
decadence of me,
secrets and apologies
lacing out like
honey and i-love-yous like
a silken scarf you could
wear around your neck
and take off when you
felt like you couldn’t
breathe anymore.
You wanted my words
to be dressed in scarlet
lace, iced with the very
sensibilities and
candor I lost to you. But
I’m sorry, for all you
got were the casualties of wars
within me, and all
they did was bleed out
into poetry and
scars across
my being.


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