Lowercase

I will make a canvas of your skin
In blacks and blues
In swirled greens and yellows
In words pressed deep into flesh

My marks will bind us
Deep as the soul
This possession of all that you are

Belies the truth
Your total possession of me
Looking up

Tears
Eyes pleading for one more flick of the lash
The key to your ownership
Words drip like heroin
“Thank you, Sir”

Emotional shotgun

Why do I want to forgive every imposition, every hurt, every game, every callous disregard that you inflict? I’ve impaled myself on the blade of your attention. This blood trickles out of the wound.

This pain, and I want to snuggle down next to it. Push the blade deeper if it meant being closer to you. I still want to be yours. I don’t think it will ever happen. But my heart is foolish. It can’t see past our love of you.

My compassion sees you in pain and I just want you to not hurt. My heart wants me to sacrifice, to do something. Say something, what will help you. What will heal you. All at odds with my own well being.

But, some small part of my too logical brain, says if we can help you, we should. My romantic heart and mind say that a world where you are happy is better than a world where I am OK and you are sad. And I know that’s destructive, probably much too far. And yet these are my feelings, these are my thoughts.

And I wish I could say this to you and not seem mad or obsessive. And some small part of my heart hopes that if you did know, then the dam would break and you would love me as I love you.

But these are emotions, and if this life has taught me anything, it’s that what we want, what we desire, is rarely what is offered where others are concerned.

So I sit at this crossroads. Blade buried deep in my heart. Knowing I should move on, logically seeing all of the wounds inflicted. But emotionally not capable of it. Pulled back to her and pulled away. Waiting in this purgatory for her to rescue me, or time passing allow my heart to give up and let me move forward.