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I would draw you a universe if you were worth the ink, unfortunately;
blackholes aren't myths and your genetics gave you a messy tendency to curiosity and I, foolish, scared, trip down (shoved) after you.
You aren't the type to promise anything.
I hold you to violence and unpredictability (sometimes the bruises on my ribs match the blood on your back) and I (shouldn't) tell you I prefer you laughing.
I would tear the stars into your bedroom if you could make me forget the blisters on my fingers but you pretend naiveté and I scratch off ink stains as permanent as tire-burns.
But don't worry; you'll pour passion down my throat until I forget you're nothing but a craving.
