Oh, how you would’ve died for them.
You would’ve written your name in blood for them.
You would’ve told God you’ve found your own savior and made him beg for you back.
Oh how unwavering you were, with your palms stretched out like prayers for them.
Oh how hollow he was.
Oh how his eyes were empty caverns and you drowned yourself in them.
How you swallowed his fairy-tales like scriptures and how you prayed to him.
How you made him your sun and watched him burn you.
And oh, how you thanked him for setting you on fire.
But love, don’t be like the girls who swallow bullet shells for boys who look the other way before pulling the trigger, because we both know where this one ends.
With you as the martyr.
With you filling your bath water red, his hands still around your neck.
And sometimes he tastes more like honeysuckle, more like bubbles in your chest when you laugh, and sometimes, he tastes a lot more like her, more like a bird perched on your lap trying to find home; somewhere that isn’t between your lips.
And you just happened to be standing there, arms open wide for him, bridges burnt down for him, mouth ready and body begging for him.