I pricked my skin when I first touched you;
Blood dripping from the cut,
Adrenaline rushing through my veins;
I can sense danger in the air,
Yet there was none in sight;
I realized I must run away,
Before I slice open another wound,
From the barely healed scars;
But I stayed confined against your edge,
Trapped by my own desires;
Each detail and inch,
Bringing me back to all the lies;
All sharp objects are dangerous;
For if their blade can cut through walls of ice,
Who's to say they won't cut through broken glass?
Leaving destruction in their path,
Like a hurricane aftermath;
For now I'll stare at the glint,
Running my finger along the edge,
Kissing the thrill of elation;
However, behind all sharpness,
Hides a past of dullness;
Rusting under shiny silver,
Cracks under new lacquer;
I used to wonder where the danger came from,
And as your piercing ends came off,
I finally found the reason why;
Even sharp, shiny objects have dents,
Scars and scruffs of mishandling;
It's all stark on the outside,
Yet under construction on the inside;
Fixing a mess someone left there,
Protecting their cores to avoid the same mistakes;
And I just happened to pass by,
The same destruction caused by too much unrequited love,
Staring right back at me from your knife.
YOU ARE READING
Black isn't a Color ➵ poems
Poetry❝ Black isn't a Color, rather, the inability of light to reflect off. ❞ A collection of poems from the confused soul of an antisocial adolescent, who doesn't know where they belong, and where they don't.
