I like your pale skin. I want to sting it. I want it to spill little strips of lava , maybe rub some in. Oh, and I want you cry. Just let me have a little bit of it. Just let me hurt you a little. Cry for me. I want tears. They just tickle me to death. Make me grin.
It’s Christmas morning and I’m like a kid just a little too old for Santa, but with no parental conformation that he doesn’t exist. I don’t really know where this came from, but I like it.
What if we both weren’t two takers.
It’s not even love. It’s as if love, loyalty and compersion all melded together.
I’ve felt the warmth of your heart, but not the heat. It’s a position that I fell into while being honest with you. Sometimes crying with me made me feel like I was hurting you. It made me not want to speak of anything at all. Your tears are more painful to me than the initial hurt that I’d suffered, and far more painful than any hurt I could bare thereafter.
Does she even know?