I miss you on my lips-
the tips of my fingers itch
to clasp round the cold
contours I’ve always known.
I long for the jolt I’ve grown used to.
think, we used to have fun.
but fun’s not the word for ruined homes
for bruises left on cheeks or broken bones
for me, alone, pretending you were something
I could own. For me, alone.
I always knew I’d reap the seeds you’d sewn
bad memories and nightmares spun from dreams
raw screams in a bad night
I woke, held tight to you, and carried on.
There’ll never be a winner in this game
the pleasure’s never worth the pain or guilt
spilt milk to be cried over as the world tilts
edgeways and leaves me spinning
lost in swirling colours on all fours
and only yours
Fun’s not the word for moments lost to dark
for dreams that end before they get to start
one-sided love that traps you like a slave
I’m learning to be brave