I sometimes lie awake at night
and dream of all the pretty ways that I could destroy you,
breathe you in as scattered ashes of “romance” built on lavish lust and greed.
It’s so picture perfect in the way that perfect isn’t meant to be;
a kind of insane that only dwells in the selfish depths of the mind.
I sometimes wonder if it’s all we ever truly need to have
to feel alive, to be ourselves.
Because, you see,
outside of creaking closed doors, we are constant metaphors at play,
tired and craved like an amateur writer on their last shot of gin,
desperately trying to make beauty out of nothing at all.
I wonder if you dream about the way you let me in,
how it’s so much easier to lose yourself in the vanity of it all
than it is to be the person that you just want to destroy.
I toy with the idea of it as you sleep beside me now,
twirl it around my finger, nip and cut at every seam,
create, destroy, fuck, and plead our lives down to the bone
in all these pretty ways, every single fucking time.