You see, that’s the problem when two artists fall;
they tear each other apart and pretend that it is beautiful.
And maybe it is beautiful when it starts.
maybe it is beautiful when it starts with lipstick streaking chapped mouths, and words swimming under tongues, and breaths and cold air expanding between both of our lungs.
Maybe it is beautiful when it starts with 4pm coffee stains spilling inked promises on your bedroom floor that you never dared to speak, and dreary morning eyes carrying charcoal on the lines of my face because neither of us would risk blinking in fear that the other will disappear.
But it is no longer beautiful when you steal words from between my teeth and swallow them like your fifth shot of Jameson, and spew them out three months later on notebook, after notebook, after notebook, after I have already left.
And it is no longer beautiful when I dip my hands into your wrists like I am trying to piece you back together before I decide to stop loving you, only to find parts of you lined in blood red paint on empty canvases like my hands have not yet learned to forget you.
we will tear each other apart and pretend that it is beautiful, and three months later you are still choking on words and my hands still shake with blood.