I want your claws to find their way down my throat and start to
glide softly yet ever so harshly down my rib cage. Be slightly off key, because
let's be honest, we have to be realistic. Tunes of sorrow, pain, scratching,
clawing. To be or not to be, Shakespeare inked and I understand him. If I
wasn't to be then why am I here. But you, you're playing me like a piano. And I
willingly indulge under the pressure of your claws which scar me more. I became
their canvas, bruised blues and purples shone through the dull, although
realistic, black and white. Honestly, I'd rather you detach my rib cage from me
because it is no longer protecting my heart and I've broken a few ribs in your
presence
anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment