You don’t love him.
You love the idea of him,
the concept of someone
who will fill the void of your bed
and kiss your scars back into your skin.
You crave salvation,
I can’t blame you for that.
But you won’t find it in his stale words,
rehearsed and abused on his
Your saving grace is somewhere
inside that scar tissue you’re
so desperate to peel from your body.