Sorry, I cannot be perfect. But pain wears many faces; though sometimes, my pain wears yours. I have spent my life on stages before but for you, I look for a level ground just to have your eyes make me sick. Or maybe not sick: you give me a twist. Sick makes it feel like there is a cure.
You love me, you love me not. This time I offer my heart in more ways than it could be my own. Tell me not that men have a weaker heart. That their love has an earlier death. Sometimes it feels like I could knit you a masterpiece or a book with beautiful stories and still remain untitled. Other times, it feels like I could simply erase your finger prints on my skin and let the rain wash away the pain. Does it matter?
I want to look at the opposite direction but it exhausts me that I have you in my bloodstream overwhelming every last bit of sense I have left. I want you back at my front. Or I am just scared to say that you are the spine that holds my back. That I want to post pictures of us on weekend vibes, back to back, but like before, all I am to you is a back up plan. I want you to hold me close behind locked doors, look deep in my eyes and have you rip my brain, this time though setting my skin on fire with a harsh reality that you never loved me. And I would scream in silence as I watch you tear my vocal cords out, but I would be overreacting, right?
I have knitted insecurities to the edge of my skin and you know how many times I have stretched the seems to let you in. Your lips have been the refuge I ran to every time there is storm over paradise, and this body has been the wreck you call home. See, even if the universe rotates round and round I would never be good at arithmetics to choose my angles right. That we are just a heap of matter, but to me you are all that matters. I hate it when we drown because of these words we are not saying. I hate it that you are deep enough to let me fall for you and gravity is so much intense I cannot bring myself not to. I hate it that this love keeps on burning us to flames and we are the ashes that keep on being blown by the wind.
Infuriation. Consolidation. And love is magnetic but you are the poles of my attraction. All pain is like the rain. Both wash and clease my stains. But it scares me most when it rains under my umbrella. That you have my lipstick stain on your coffee cup and I have you in between my gaps. That I have your image wrapped up in my mind and I am obsessed with how we grind. I pluck words from my bones and hide them at the cracks of our flaws. This pain stays when you don’t. Next time you plant a kiss on my lips as you leave, take pieces of you and remains of your love. You love me. You love me not.