it’s pronounced savour, not saviour

She’s what I’d look like if I was beautiful  
the mirror cracked around the edges  
and I want to kiss her deep beneath the surface  
of the ocean  
so we can devour each other’s breaths as we drown  
 
If I sold her my soul  
I get the impression she’d give it back to me  
unscathed and maybe in better repair than left alongside my own spirit  
but I’m not after the touch of a saving Grace  
I want blood bitten lips and bruises on my hips  
I want destruction and the ecstasy of pain  
shattered glass and whiskey bottles with all the romance  
of ripped lace curtains on a cold night in June  
 
But she’s not the kind of girl to fuck me up  
when the noosed rope she’s climbing out of hell with  
is the same I plan to hang myself from  
‘cause she’s worked too hard to let love abuse her  
and I haven’t worked hard enough to love myself quite right  
 
Never mind that I can’t haul my gaze from her winter chapped lips  
that every few seconds I want to kiss  
because she’s speaking a language my demons understand  
and I’ve long succumbed to their whispers and they’re telling me  
love’s for bitches  
and I’m an artist that needs a canvas to paint  
 
© Indie Adams 2013