What Makes You So Damn Angry
Another glass bottle thrown at the wall,
And another plate swept from the floor.
One more hole left in the door,
Followed with one kiss on my jaw.
Blood, bruises and cracking fingers,
Stitches, kisses and undone buttons.
You linger a little close to my face after driving a heavy fist past my face.
I have always felt like your Harley Quinn; justifying my sickly desire to be worthy of your intimate, inhumane connection. I could see the war you fought with yourself that you would visibly fight with me. But no, it did not matter. The blood, the bruises. All the broken bones and stitches. My excuse was always the same.
I fell down the stairs.
I walked out in front of traffic.
I attempted suicide.
I put up with it for you; your perfection.
I want to fix you. Show you everything is okay. I wanted to put you back together.
Tonight, your fist went straight past my face and you lingered a little too close to my face. So, I placed my hand on your wrist and held on tight, and put my free hand on your face and slowly kissed you. It was like the prey slowly approaching the predator as to not to disrupt the peace. You didn’t fight back. You rarely ever did. I would never fight back when you started. I always let you run your course, and I would intercept where I could.
The fist the was next to my face then traced my collarbone. It was tender, bruised. A few stitches of broken skin trailed below it. You weren’t trying to be gentle. You pulled back and let out a heavy gush of air, and opened your eyes. What makes you so damn angry?
And another plate swept from the floor.
One more hole left in the door,
Followed with one kiss on my jaw.
Blood, bruises and cracking fingers,
Stitches, kisses and undone buttons.
You linger a little close to my face after driving a heavy fist past my face.
I have always felt like your Harley Quinn; justifying my sickly desire to be worthy of your intimate, inhumane connection. I could see the war you fought with yourself that you would visibly fight with me. But no, it did not matter. The blood, the bruises. All the broken bones and stitches. My excuse was always the same.
I fell down the stairs.
I walked out in front of traffic.
I attempted suicide.
I put up with it for you; your perfection.
I want to fix you. Show you everything is okay. I wanted to put you back together.
Tonight, your fist went straight past my face and you lingered a little too close to my face. So, I placed my hand on your wrist and held on tight, and put my free hand on your face and slowly kissed you. It was like the prey slowly approaching the predator as to not to disrupt the peace. You didn’t fight back. You rarely ever did. I would never fight back when you started. I always let you run your course, and I would intercept where I could.
The fist the was next to my face then traced my collarbone. It was tender, bruised. A few stitches of broken skin trailed below it. You weren’t trying to be gentle. You pulled back and let out a heavy gush of air, and opened your eyes. What makes you so damn angry?