Love to me is,
when I said I’d feed off anyone’s hand
and I didn’t mean yours.
So I say I love you because
I think maybe you wouldn’t want to hurt me
(What a tragedy.)
I couldn’t tell you,
but I can feel my skin bleeding marble and buzzing with white noise,
I’m cut-off cries and static,
a loose-wired run-out girl best suitable for tapping on the shoulder while I puke out my childish love to you
and I know you’d never reciprocate it and never consider me an equal again. (If you ever did so in the first place.)
I don’t blame you. After all, who wants to eat love with an aftertaste of puke?