Pain flutters like the butterflies I once had for him.
Once it was all I ever needed, how foolish.
His touch burned me to a boil,
Now, the marks left behind only serve as a reminder of my own sins.
What was love deceived? It was only lust.
Passionate, intense - revolting, sickening.
Mirrored images show his marks on silky, hidden flesh.
To love is not to be sucked dry, used to the last inch.
I took him a mile, he smiled and pushed that blade deeper.
Lying in the roadside ditch,
I died waiting for his return.
YOU ARE READING
Poems: From a Manic Depressive
PoetryThey are not that well written to be honest. Rubbish trash mainly, but that's what I write so oh, well. It will mainly be depressing. Forewarning you that this was very emotional for me at one point or currently. I write about serious and non-seriou...
