I wanted to nip around the slight cut on your lips in
hopes that you would notice me. I wanted to feel
your swollen skin split between my teeth and
decorate my chin as a painting you never hung high
before on those aged, bone cracked walls.
I watched you scrub them with homemade arsenic
once; saw your desperate hands clawing wordless
screams deep into it's very architecture. You looked
like a pretty blues song overdosing in front of a
blank canvas back then, and I wanted you to spill
color over everything.
To kiss me violently under lurid moonlight and
smear damp, red condolences on my flesh. To
lightly graze your tongue against my teeth and
force some semblance of art down my throat.
Mostly, I did. But a piece of me simply wanted to
leave my memory as the taste of bloody cigarettes
and a brutal scar puckered along your mouth. Not
surprising, I'm sure. I was always a messy artist