Of you, of him, of every boy. Who can i trust? Who won’t break me. I can’t even trust myself, for I find i become the very thing I am so afraid of. A lover for a season, the whispers that leave you up at night but nothing more. A thief of innocence, whose short lived escapade derives pleasure from the masochism of ripped organs not literal, but literal. mom always told me to be careful, but how can i be careful with you? you, the fruit of my gleaming green eyes. you, the pressure against me. you, the color of fall leaves and the crunch of bones, one in the same. I trip over and over and over. Hitting my face on the concrete hurts less than the realization everyone and anyone can move on. The blood that drips reminds me of him; when it slows, of you. Even when they stitch me up, even when I’m stitched inside, i still feel the fingertips prodding me. What once was romance and bliss, is an itch in my side, an itch under my chin.