11/8/12

contentment is claustrophobia, as you are the itch of my restless skin; the tired ache of my brittle hands. contentment is fear, as i know too well how it bows and arches, twisting against my words, condemning you. fooling you like the child i know you never were; will never be. i cannot understand the ways i need you, as you cannot believe it when i tell you so. in tired eyes your innocence transpires, blossoms, dissolves before i grasp it; trace my fingers of its curve. and you are bitter and you are stern and you are void of the apathy i crave so carelessly, convinced that someday i will find in you. naivety consumes me and i am blind to the truths that in the end will only scar me; rigid lesions in every place you ever touched. you don't need to tell me that you are sorry; it flashes in your eyes as they skim my body, absorbing every arch and angle. it curves in your lips as you say my name, pull away, bury your face where i cannot find you. you understand exactly what it is that you have created, acknowledge it with the twitch of your hand against my thigh. tomorrow i will forgive you. it was always my fault, anyway.