trigger finger and streaks in the wax

by suicidallyanonymous

I am terrified of loving you, because it’s all too easy, and I wish I didn’t know how to aim.
Maybe then I wouldn’t leave bullet holes in your heart. But I want to love someone.
Someone who could define me without words, but maybe I was meant to be alone…
because I could hurt you. And all I can do is skin myself against the barbs of self-loathing
(I don’t deserve a single fuck).

I wish I could fix everything I touch, maybe then your trust won’t eat itself when
my English bleeds something reminiscent of stupid. And I don’t sound so fluent with my mouth in my hands.
But I wanted to prove that I could amount to something. Something that was worth its weight in tears, that I could build a staircase
to touch the razor tips of falling stars.
So that maybe I won’t break upon impact.

You can make me smile, wide enough to touch the thoughts in my head; the destructive parts
that mangle my soul, and suffocate them.
But I am plywood and my words splinter in my throat; translation gets mangled, because you’ll read between drawn lines
that I’ve tried so hard to erase (there is nothing but s-p-a-c-e there, love).

Apparently
I didn’t give you my heart,
because I can still feel it.
And if you’re going to make me cry,
it means you matter.

3 Comments to “trigger finger and streaks in the wax”

  1. Are hesitant to open yourself?

    Yoshiko

    >

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